


Lost in the Past

by Soledad



Series: Torchwood Virtual Series 3 [1]
Category: Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters, Torchwood
Genre: COE fix-it (sort of), F/M, Gratutious details about medieval life, M/M, The Rift is as the Rift does, involuntary time travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-21 00:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: The explosion of the Hub at the end of “CoE: Day One” tears the Rift wide open. Ianto finds himself in 12th-century Wales, together with Gwen, of all people. There is no way for them to get back to contemporary Cardiff, so they have to see how they can survive 900 years in the past.Warning:not for Gwen-fans. None of my stories are.





	1. Foreword

**Spoilers:** “Countrycide” and “CoE – Day One” for Torchwood, “The Summer of the Danes” for Cadfael. Nothing too detailed for the latter, though.  
 **Time-frame:** A sort of fix-it to CoE for Torchwood, although no happy end in the conventional sense of the world. Around the end and after “The Summer of the Danes” for Cadfael.

 **Disclaimer:** the usual: don’t own, don’t sue! Everything belongs to the almighty BBC and the fabulously talented Ms Ellis Peters. I’m just borrowing everyone for the sake of this story. The historic characters belong to themselves, obviously, but I hope they won’t mind featuring here. I tried to treat them with the utmost respect.

**FOREWORD**

This story was born out of righteous anger about the thing that killed Torchwood for me, namely "Children of Earth". Since the so-called cretive minds behind that... _thing_ won't care for the really interesting characters and seem to favour the one without whom I could do very well, aka Gwen-bloody-Cooper, I choose not to watch anything "new" with the false label Torchwood upon it. That includes the so-called Series 4.

Still, even though I refuse to accept CoE as part of the canon, due to the blatant canon rape committed by the writers themselves (a great deal of canon facts from Series 1 and 2 that got contradicted without a plausible explanation), I decided that what they can do, I can do better. So, this is an alternate version of what happened after the explosion of the Hub with the two remaining Torchwood 3 agents, who, frankly, were too close to that explosion to survive in the first place.

So I sent them to 12th-century Wales, more accurately to Gwynedd, during the rule of Prince Owain, to see which one of the two could have really survived on their own.

I must point out, that this is a crossover with the Brother Cadfael series - the books, not the TV-series that did bad things to Cadfael canon, too. So wherever historical accuracy seems a bit whacky, I followed the Cadfael books. I don't expect too many such problems, though, as Ellis Peters was a medievalist and a thorough researcher.

All 12th-century characters are either historical ones or come from book canon. The only Torchwood characters actually featuring are Ianto and Gwen; everyone else would only appear in the later parts of the trilogy. While working on this story, I've reworked the whole concept, and so this will be the first part of the **TORCHWOOD VIRTUAL SERIES 3** trilogy. I could have written the whole thing in one ungodly long tale, but decided to turn it into a trilogy. It will be easier for me to write and for everyone else to read.

"Lost in the Past" was finished six years ago. Bits and pieces for the other two parts do exist, and I hope that one day I'll be able to put them together to a coherent whole. Wish me luck. :)


	2. Chapter 1 - Awakening

**CHAPTER ONE – AWAKENING**

Ianto Jones could feel himself waking up... but in that half-dream state where the line between dream and reality is blurred. He felt the slightly chilly yet gradually warming air of a summer morning not much after sunrise, and the pleasant, natural scent of the fresh outdoors – which was weird. Not unlike the day when they had reached the Brecon Beacons, actually, and started setting up camp. Before everything would have gone straight to hell, that is.

There they had been, sitting around on camping chairs, eating burgers. Gwen had started that stupid, thoughtless little _Who was your last snog?_ –game of hers, and Jack had asked if only humanoid species would count. At which Owen had called him a sick, sick man…

JACK! Ianto bolted upright in shock, his eyes wide open, without actually seeing his surroundings. Brecon Beacons had been more than two years ago, and when he had last seen Jack, they had been in the Hub, Jack with a bomb ticking inside his stomach. A bomb set only two minutes till the explosion – an explosion with a blast radius of a mile!

He had not wanted to leave Jack to die alone – _again!_ – but Jack had grabbed him and dragged him to the invisible lift, tossing him, after a fast, desperate kiss, onto the platform and sending him to safety. Gwen had already left through the tourist office, running for her life and for that of her unborn child, and Ianto had been rising with the lift towards the complicated opening mechanism of the roof. He could see Jack pushing buttons to lock down the Hub, to contain the explosion as much as possible, hand hovering over his wrist strap, anxious to see Ianto get away.

Ianto had wanted to stay with him. If they could not _live_ together till they died, for the simple reason that Jack did _not_ die, or rather, he would not _stay_ dead, he had at least wanted to _die_ together. Preferably in Jack's arms. But Jack had needed him to get away, so that he would have the strength to face another horrible death in order to save the people of Cardiff through his death, and for his sake, Ianto had left.

Jack had been afraid. Ianto could see him close his eyes briefly when the computer had counted down to zero. Before the roof would open and allow him to leave. Before the Hub would lock down behind him.

Ant then everything had gone white. Before the lift would deliver him onto the slab with the perception filter, his last thought had been whether there would be anything left of Jack after such an explosion.

“You know me; I can survive anything,” Jack had said. “I’ll come back. I always do.”

 _For you_ , the unspoken promise had hung in the air between them. But in _this_ case Ianto was not sure that Jack would be able to keep his promise.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Fighting back his nausea, a sure sign that he was seriously concussed, Ianto opened his eyes to take in his surroundings.

Then he blinked. Then he closed his eyes and opened them again, not sure that he was truly, fully awake just yet.

He had expected to see Roald Dahl Plass in ruins; debris and broken glass and bent metal everywhere. Not even the sealed Hub would have been able to contain an explosion of such magnitude without a great deal of collateral damage. He had been prepared to see dead bodies – lots of them. At this time of the year, the Plass was usually swarming with tourists.

What he saw instead made him question his own sanity. Profoundly.

There _were_ dead bodies all right, complete with the unmistakable, sickeningly sweet odour of death. After the Brecon Beacons, he would always recognize the stench of dead human flesh, no matter what. So yes, there were bodies, although not all that many of them – but they were clad in some strange garb he had only seen in historic films about the Middle Ages. They were laid out in sombre order on the upland meadow grass, as if waiting for being collected and transported to their burial place.

Beyond them, looking down from the crest, Ianto could see the sea. Not the neatly ordered shore of Cardiff Bay, though. There were sand dunes, and beyond the dunes the morning mist was rising from the water like a diaphanous swirl of faint blue over the shore that still lay in quickly lifting shadow. Westward, the surface of the sea was bright already, flecked with the white shimmer of spray in the steady breeze. 

It was a captivating sight – wild, untamed, unmarred by any human presence but the dead lying in the grass. A sight he could not remember having seen before. But again, he had not been to many places in his short life.

Where on Earth _was_ he anyway? Cos sure as hell this was _not_ Cardiff! How had he got here? 

Well, unless he was still dreaming, the _how_ would be the easiest part to explain. The explosion might have torn the Rift wide open, If that was the case, he could have ended up _anywhere_. Perhaps he wasn’t even on Earth anymore. He just hoped that – should the Rift ever decide to bring him back to Cardiff – he wouldn’t end up in Flat Holm, with his sanity stripped away from him due to the things he was about to see.

 _Let’s hope I’m still on Earth_ , he thought; in which case getting help would have been the most important factor. He patted himself down, in search for his mobile phone, but found nothing.

Literally nothing. Not only was his mobile phone gone; there was not much left of his clothing, either. His suit was in shreds, his shirt torn beyond repair in several places, his tie hung frayed over his neck, one of his shoes was missing – only his underwear was still more or less intact.

“Well if that isn’t bloody fantastic!” he muttered angrily. 

He _hated_ being in such dishevelled state. Could his father see him now, he’d be fit to be tied. Iefan Jones might have lost his small tailor’s business due to economic recession, but he had been very conscious of appearances until the day he died.

Ianto looked around himself uncertainly. He was in the middle of a meadow that clearly served as the temporary resting place of those dead people in the strange clothes, but otherwise he could not see anything to identify his surroundings. He could see no fence or border markers anywhere – he was simply in the middle of the great outdoors, without specification. Although the sand dunes below _did_ remind him of _something_ , in his current, confused state of mind he just could not remember _what_ it was.

He shook his head. The fresh wave of nausea promptly reminded him what a stupid idea _that_ had been, so he waited for it to ebb a little again. He would think about the location later. Right now, getting some help – preferably in the form of clothes and medicine before anything else, though any means of transportation would be nice, too – was the most important thing. Unfortunately, he could see nothing for miles into the horizon. No building, no moving thing anywhere that he could tell. He shivered slightly, despite the warm summer morning.

 _Perhaps the shock_ , he thought, rubbing his arms while considering his next move.

Turning away from the meadow, he looked down at the shore again. Far away at the horizon, he saw movement, after all. Several long, lean boats, dragon-headed fore and aft, were heading westwards, driven by long oars; perhaps as many as twelve pairs of them, if he was counting correctly, against the breeze. Their small, square sails were turned sideways, so that they would use what little speed they could catch, despite the wrong direction of the wind.

“ _Viking_ ships?” Ianto muttered in confusion.

He pinched himself. Hard. The ships did not vanish. He pinched himself again. Nothing changed. He was definitely awake. Of course, there was still the possibility that the concussion caused him to see things that were simply _not_ there – or so he hoped. ‘Cos the other possibility was just too weird to consider.

A loud moan startled him out of his muddled thoughts. Looking around again, in search for the source of that noise, he spotted the crumpled form of someone a good deal further, right close to the edge of the crest. It was a woman, by the shape of her, wearing a black leather jacket, with jeans and black leather boots, her clothes torn and bloodied, too.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “What the bloody hell… I’m so going to kill someone, once I’m back on my feet again…”

That voice… Ianto closed his eyes in pain, wishing the Rift would be a living entity that _could_ be killed. Of all possible people, it had to throw him here – wherever _here_ was – in the company of Gwen! Not that he would wish her any harm, but the perspective to be exiled on some alien planet with _Gwen_ made him even more nauseous than he already was.

On the bright side, she looked basically unhurt, save from a split lip. She must have been a lot further from the explosion than Ianto himself had been; which was logical, considering that she had left a little earlier. And that she wanted to kill the people who had made them end up here – _that_ was a sentiment Ianto definitely, whole-heartedly shared.

Unfortunately, he did not have the faintest idea who had been behind the attack against the Hub – he consciously and with great effort banned from his mind the mental image of Jack, lying in bloody pieces among the debris – or how to get back to Cardiff to kill the people responsible for the whole mess. _If_ they could get back at all, which he began to doubt seriously.

He tried to clamber to his feet, but the spiking wave of nausea warned him that if would be a bad idea. So he crawled over to Gwen on all fours, as careful as he could, hissing as the uneven ground rubbed his bare knees raw. Gwen was so wrapped up in her own misery that she did not even notice his pitiful approach, until he touched her arm. Which proved another really bad idea, as Gwen lashed out reflexively, giving him a great clout upside the head that nearly knocked him out cold again.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When she realized it was Ianto she had hit, she was terribly sorry, of course, but _that_ didn’t make Ianto’s concussion – or the increasing nausea – any better. He wasn’t really angry with her, though; not this time. Under the given circumstances, no-one could blame her for panicking. Hell, _he_ was a hair’s breadth from, panicking himself, and after the Battle of Canary Wharf and the Brecon Beacons he wasn’t one who would panic easily.

“It’s all right, Gwen,” he waved off her profound apologies, “it wasn’t your fault. I should have made more noise.”

“You’re bloody right, you should have!” she replied in a slightly hysterical tone; then she looked down herself and founded. “I look horrible, don’t I? Look at my clothes! And my hair! I’m filthy, and in rags, and my boots are torn, too!”

“It’s a good thing that I don’t have that problem, then, isn’t it?” replied Ianto dryly. “Seeing that I haven’t got any clothes left and whatnot.”

Gwen was terribly ashamed at once, realizing that fact for the first time. She did have a good heart, basically… when she wasn’t too preoccupied with her own problems.

“Oh, Ianto, sweetheart, I’m so sorry!” her eyes were wide and full of tears. “But we’ll get you help, right away! Just let me find my phone…”

Ianto, who _hated_ being called sweetheart, or love, or any other endearments, unless it would come from Jack, who rarely ever used any of them, rolled his eyes in exasperation but let her have her way. She actually managed to fish her mobile phone from a surviving pocket of her once so fashionable leather jacket, but no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t get access to any known phone numbers. Or to any random, unknown ones, for that matter. Now she began to panic in earnest.

“Why can’t we reach anyone?” she demanded, her tears flowing freely. “How am I going to get home? What’s happening to us?”

Ianto suppressed a sigh. He could never deal well with hysterics; both Lisa and Rhiannon had been blessedly free of such tendencies, so he’d never had the chance to get used to them. He wished he’d be stuck here with Tosh, poor, practical, brave Tosh… even Suzie would have been preferable. But the Rift hadn’t asked him in advance, of course.

“Get a hold on yourself, Gwen,” he said through gritted teeth; perhaps a trifle more forcibly than intended. “We need to find a landline somewhere, as mobile phones are apparently useless. Or a person. Anyone. There has to be somewhere nearby a house or a farm or something. I mean, those dead bodies were laid out there by _somebody_.”

“Dead bodies?” Gwen repeated, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. “What dead bodies?”

“Over there,” Ianto vaguely gestured in the direction of the corpses. “No, don’t go there! It’s gross, and they can’t help us anyway.”

Of course, telling Gwen _not_ to do something was the surest way to practically force her to do it anyway. Not heading Ianto’s warning, she rushed up to take a look – only to fall to her knees and become violently ill right afterwards. 

Ianto resisted the temptation to say “told you so”. Instead, he crawled to her, still on all fours, for standing up without help seemed a really bad idea, and shook her a little… as much as he dared without worsening his own condition.

“Gwen… listen to me! I need to get to the edge of the crest to take a good look at the landscape; perhaps I’ll see something familiar. But I can’t get there on my own. I’m concussed and dizzy and won’t be able to stay on my feet. Can you help me?”

Momentarily forgetting her own misery, Gwen was all compassion and understanding at once… like a mother hen.

“Oh, Ianto, love, _of course_ I’ll help you! Come, lean on me! It will be all right, you’ll see, everything will be all right.”

Ianto hated being called _love_ as much as he hated being called _sweetheart_ (again, with the exception of Jack who hardly ever used such words) but found it better not to fight with Gwen about semantics right now. Neither did he believe that anything would be all right, any time soon. But he needed Gwen’s help, so he shut up and accepted it.

Even so, it was hard going. He kept stepping on sharp pebbles, thistles and other stinging things – and with one foot unshod and missing the sock, too, it wasn’t a pleasant experience. He swayed by every other step, and nearly fell, despite Gwen’s best efforts to keep him on his feet. She was simply too short and too week to be of sufficient support, although she did try hard, he had to give her _that_.

It seemed a pain-filled eternity until they finally reached the rim of the crest – but the sight offering itself was well worth of the effort.

Before their stunned eyes a long, sandy shore stretched towards the horizon. The anchorage at the mouth of a great river was separated from the broad, sandy reaches of the bay to southward by a long spit of shingle, beyond which the water of another rivers and their tributaries wound its way to the strait and the open sea, in a winding course through the waste of sands. The long stretch of shallow tidal water extended more than two miles to the south from their vantage point, with a green shore beyond the pale gold shoals and the gleaming silver water rolling back into distant hills.

“It’s beautiful!” Gwen whispered in awe. “Where are we, Ianto?”

“I can’t be sure, of course,” Ianto replied in a manner that revealed that he was, in fact, fairly sure about it. “The coastal line is familiar – but not familiar enough. In any case, those hills look a lot like Afron Menai on those prospects I sell in the tourist office.”

“Afron Menai?” Gwen repeated in surprise. “You mean we’re in bloody _Gwynedd_? How on Earth did we end up here, of all places?”

Ianto sighed. “Gwen, Torchwood Three has been studying the Rift since its discovery in 1879, but in more than two hundred years, no-one has managed to figure out how it works.”

“True,” Gwen admitted. Then she scanned the shoreline again. “You know, I only ever saw postcards of Afron Menai, but I could swear that the coastline looked differently. Not so empty, for starters. There ought to be tourist shops and cottages and ships and jetties… and stuff,” she finished, a bit lamely.

“Well, I _did_ see ships heading westwards a short time ago,” Ianto admitted,” but they’re gone now. Perhaps they were just a fringe of my imagination, ‘cos I’m concussed. At least I _hope_ they were.”

“You _hope_?” Gwen echoed, nonplussed. “Why?”

“Cos if they were real, then we’ve been replaced in time as well as in place,” Ianto said grimly. “Those were Viking longships, Gwen! _Drakkars_! If they were real, then we’ve landed in the Middle Ages, and I can’t even begin to guess _when_. The Danish kingdom in Dublin lasted for a bloody long time, and the Danes raided the Welsh lands frequently in those years.”

Shocked, Gwen scanned the surface of the bay again, trying to find any trace of those ships but found none. That gave her new hope. Poor Ianto must have hit his head pretty hard to see ships that weren’t there. The more important it was, then, to find some help. Granted, there were no signs of life anywhere that she could tell, but Ianto was right, _somebody_ must have laid out those dead people in the meadow grass. It was worth a try, if nothing else.

She cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled as loud as she could, voice rising an octave from the effort.

“HELLOOO!!! ANYONE AROUND? HELLO! HELP! ANYONE!”

She could hear her voice being carried away in the breeze, gliding along the surface of the water, but there was no answer. She strained to listen, but had no chance to catch anything above the humming of the breeze and the clashing of the waves against the shore.

She raised her hands to give it another try, when Ianto caught up with her, hobbling miserably, his face dark with anger.

“Are you bloody insane?” he demanded. “You could get us both killed!”

“But Ianto, we need help, love!” Gwen argued, wide-eyed with sympathy. “ _You_ need help! Look at yourself: you’re all but naked, and the sole of your foot is as good as shredded to ribbons. There, let’s try to get to that river; there must be a road of some sort alongside it. There may even be a car we could flag down. At the very least it would lead somewhere. To a house. Or a town. Or a village.”

“Yeah, cos we’ve been so lucky with villages in the outdoors,” Ianto muttered. “If we’re especially lucky, we might even meet the people who’ve killed all those blokes over there.

And he gestured in the vague direction of the dead bodies.

“Perhaps those are just dummies,” Gwen tried to deny the sobering fact heroically, because accepting them would make her freak out too much. “I mean, have you got close enough to them to see if they’re real blokes at all? What if someone is making some historic film here, and this is all just, you know, location?”

“Sure, and denial is just a river in Egypt,” Ianto returned sarcastically. “Trust me; those are real, down-to-earth dead bodies over there. They could fake the corpses, the clothes, event he dirt and the blood – but not the stench. Not to me. Not after the Brecon Beacons.”

The recall of _those_ memories shut up Gwen efficiently. She even considered getting sick again, but then realized that as she had already lost everything she had eaten in the last twenty-four hours, that wasn’t really an option anymore. Dry heaves were so not her idea of fun.

“We should still try getting down to the river,” she said after a while, a lot more subdued than before. “At least we could have some water to wash off the dirt. We may even find a road.”

“Oh, I agree,” Ianto sighed. “I just don’t know how I’ll get down there.”

“Yes, you’ll need something for your foot,” Gwen gnawed her lower lip in frustration, trying to come up with a useful idea, but to no end.

Fortunately, Ianto was already ahead of her. “Help me to get out of my shirt,” he said. ”It’s a lost case anyway, but perhaps I can bundle my foot in it.”

The first couple of efforts led to nothing – the damaged shirt was too big and clumsy a piece of fabric to work with. Finally Ianto tore it to shreds, about a hand’s breadth each, and Gwen swathed his bare foot with them like a mummy’s, fixing the makeshift bandage with his frayed tie. The deep burgundy one. Jack’ favourite. It looked ridiculous, but when Ianto gave it a try, it held as if glued on, and at least now he could walk without injuring himself any more.

“It will be hell to take off,” Gwen warned. “Your foot is full of cuts and scratches; the drying blood’s gonna glue the fabric to your wounds.”

“I’ll have to soak my foot, then, before taking it off,” Ianto answered with a very careful shrug. His head really disliked any sudden movements. “Let’s go.”


	3. Chapter 2 - First Contact

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**CHAPTER TWO – FIRST CONTACT**

Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd, second-born son of the Prince of Gwynedd - one of the most powerful Welsh kingdoms of its time - took upon himself the sad yet honourable duty of having their dead brought home. The long-lasting unrest, caused by his power-hungry uncle Cadwaladr who had, in the end, brought a fleet of Danes against his own brother to force Owain to give him back his lands in Ceredigion, had finally ended. 

The Danes were gone, with Cadwaladr’s silver and cattle that he had to pay them as reparation for the gold they had hoped for and had _not_ been able to gain during this raid. Cadwaladr himself had been released, left to his own devices, as no-one but his most loyal followers wanted anything to do with him, and Owain’s army was ready to break camp and return home. All they still needed to do was to take their dead, shroud them for burial and lay them in the earth decently. 

Hywel had assigned this task to Cuhelyn ab Einion, one of his most trusted men, and Cuhelyn had ridden out with a small group of men-at-arms to see it done. The men had just begun to take care of their fallen ones (thankfully, there were less of those than there could have been), when Cuhelyn, who could not help them with the task – it would not have been easy, with only one hand, as he had – spotted two dishevelled figures struggling along the narrow dirt track that led down to the River Menai.

There were quite far away, even for his sharp eyes. The only details he could see from this distance were the height difference between them, and that the taller one was practically naked, while the shorter one wore some kind of black leather jerkin – if that was indeed a jerkin. It had a most unusual cut.

“Goronwy,” Cuhelyn whistled to one of his men and pointed in the direction of the two. “Come with me. We need to find out who these people are.”

Goronwy - one of Prince Owain’s trusted men in Bangor - took a good, hard look at the stumbling, ailing figures and nodded.

“They do not seem to be stray Danes,” he judged, “But they might be wounded men of young Gwion’s haphazard army.”

“We cannot blame any man for keeping their fealty, just as we keep ours,” Cuhelyn said. “They seem wounded indeed and may need help. In any case, we cannot allow them to roam Owain’s land as they please.”

As if proving his previous words, the taller figure faltered and fell. The smaller one tried to shake him awake, but with no effect.

“Oh, they do need help, no doubt about that,” Goronwy swung nimbly into the saddle. “A good thing that we still have that old monk in camp; the Welsh one who accompanied Bishop de Clinton’s envoy to Bangor. They say he nursed half the Danish troops back to health again, after the first skirmish.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They rode down from the crest with moderate speed – there was no reason to hurry – and reached the dirt track within short time. When they looked down at the two miserable figures, Cuhelyn realized that these were _not_ some strays from Gwion’s troops, either. These had never been in the battle, despite their dishevelled looks.

The taller one, the one who had just passed out, was a well-grown young man, dark-haired and pale-skinned, with a broad, lightly furred chest – and almost naked, save for his small clothes and a strangely-made shoe on one foot. The other foot was thickly swaddled in dirty rags and bound with some red cord. He had an unmistakably Welsh face, with good, broad cheekbones and a button nose, refined like those of the nobly born, the smooth cheeks clean-shaven and handsome. The thick brows drew together above the nose in a manner that signalled pain or worry – or both.

But he clearly was no warrior, even though Cuhelyn’s experienced eyes could spot the slight knobs where some ribs had once been broken, and the patches where he must have suffered heavy burns. The burn-marks, in Cuhelyn’s estimate, must have been older; at least three or four years old, and healed quite well. If anything, though, the young man looked a little soft, with the shapely, long-fingered hands of a scribe or a musician. Rather a scribe, Cuhelyn corrected himself, as the fingertips lacked the typical calluses caused by harp-strings. Perhaps the clerk of some wealthy lord. 

But what was he doing out here, unarmed, all but naked – and unconscious? Had he been robbed? Why had he not defended himself? No self-respecting Welshman would go on any journey in these days without at least a good, solid knife to defend himself against footpads. And there could be nod doubt that the young man had _not_ defended himself. For that, his current injuries were too minor, caused by the sharp ends of broken branches and the likes. 

Had he let himself be stripped of everything meekly and without resistance? Somehow Cuhelyn could not believe that. There was a stubborn streak in that young face that belied any such assumption. But what had happened to him then?

“Cuhelyn?” the puzzled tone of Goronwy interrupted his thoughts. “What say you: is this other one a man or a wench?”

Cuhelyn turned his attention to the other person, hesitating for a moment with his judgement. The other one, wearing torn black boots, strange-looking hoses and that thing that looked like a leather jerkin but was none, _could_ have been a long-haired boy… but as his glance slid lower, he saw the definitely feminine curves under the leather and whatever fabric the shirt beneath was made of. 

No, this _was_ a wench, without doubt. Dressed like a man, for some reason – and not very convincingly, at that. If she hoped for safety on the road, she had failed. A blind man could have seen through her disguise. That tight shirt under the leather barely concealed her breasts. Whom was she trying to fool with such a half-arsed attempt?

Cuhelyn shook his head in wry amusement. Well, they will see what this was all about. 

_Time to get some answers_ , he thought, looking down at the two, with his one hand on his hip.

“Who are you and how did you get here?” he demanded.

His voice, though not pitched in a threatening manner, seemed to startle her, which surprised him. How could she _not_ have heard the clattering of hooves? Was she deaf, or at least of limited hearing?

He repeated the question, but got no answer. She just stared up to him, with impossibly wide, mesmerising eyes that were brimming over with tears, and trembling lips. In those huge eyes, there was panic and perchance a little bit of hope – but no understanding at all. 

Cuhelyn repeated the question a third time, with the same results. She clearly did not understand his words. Perhaps she was not Welsh, after all, even though her round face, markedly older than that of her passed-out companion, showed definite Welsh features. _And_ she was gawking with mute horror at his maimed arm, the one that ended right under the elbow, which made Cuhelyn edgy.

As a rule, he did not mind people asking what had happened to his sword-arm; after all, he had lost it honourably, defending his lord and sworn brother to the bitter end. What he very much minded, though, was when they stared at him as if he were some sort of misshapen monster; like those poor creatures shown on the fairs for money. Maimed he might be, but he was still a warrior, accepted by Owain Gwynedd himself, and he would be damned if he let some runaway wench look at him like _that_!

Fortunately, before he could have worked up himself to full rage (which did not take long in these days) the unconscious man started to moan softly.

“He’s coming to his senses,” Goronwy said in relief. “Now we may get some sensible answers, as _she_ is clearly mad.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When Ianto came to, the first thing he noticed was a splitting headache, combined with a fresh wave of nausea and a sharp pain in his lower back. He must have injured his back during the explosion, but hadn’t had the time to realize it… until now.

The second thing he noticed was that someone was talking to them, in a slightly raised voice, as if they were talking to someone with impaired hearing – or of very slow wit. The language sounded vaguely Welsh, but it was a dialect he could not remember to have ever heard before. He could not really understand it, despite some familiar-sounding words. 

That annoyed him to no end. He _hated_ it when he could not understand something. _Anything_. Especially a language that made he feel as if he ought to know it, while he clearly did not. It was not fair.

All too well could he recognize and understand Gwen’s voice, however, who was desperately pleading to someone for help. In _English_.

“Please, please, I can’t understand you! I have no idea what you’re talking about! I don’t know where I am or how I got there! Could you take me to a phone, please?”

The voice he had heard previously – a man’s voice – asked something again in that Welsh-sounding language. Gwen obviously did not understand it either, because she sounded rather angry now. Royally pissed, to be more accurate.

“Great! _Finally_ someone turns up, only to behave like a complete moron! Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! I’m surrounded by freaks!”

“Gwen,” Ianto groaned, still unable to lift his leaden eyelids. “Try to speak Welsh… it may be more helpful.”

Gwen hugged him spontaneously, which did nothing to make his concussion any better. 

_Or_ his nausea. 

_Or_ the pain in his lower back.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re awake again!” she enthused. “Thank God! I think we might have wandered into the middle of some bloody re-enactment society shinding. God, but they’re complete morons! Perhaps _you_ can reason with them.”

Curiosity made Ianto fight gravity successfully enough to open his eyes, after all. With Gwen’s help, he sat up – well, more or less – and looked around him.

The first thing he saw were the horses. Good, sturdy Welsh horses, of the breed that had become known as the Powys Cob and known for its agility and endurance; about thirteen hands high and of a dark chestnut colour, with their bold eyes set far apart. They were saddled and harnessed in old-fashioned, almost barbaric pomp, the harnesses decorated with finely-wrought brass plaques and the saddle-cloths made of good wool.

The men sitting in the saddles were clad in a similar style as the dead people laid out in the grass: in knee-length tunics, the form-fitting leggings called _hose_ in the Middle Ages, good riding boots, and the _brychan_ , a rectangular piece of woollen cloth that had been used both ad a cloak and as bedding in those times, fastened on their shoulder with decorative brooches.

One of them got down from his horse and came slowly towards them, holding out his right hand in a placating gesture, showing that he meant no harm. He was a young man of true Welsh build, sturdy and compact, very trim in his medieval attire, and even comely in his dark and brooding fashion, focussing his pitch-black eyes wholly on Ianto’s face, giving him the uncomfortable feeling that he could see through him like through glass. As he drew nearer, Ianto could see that his left forearm terminated only a few inches below the elbow. A fine linen cloth was drawn over the stump like a glove, secured by a thin silver bracelet.

He asked something again, but the question was just as incomprehensible as the last time. It still sounded like Welsh – but it wasn’t, not really. Of course, Ianto himself was far from being fluent, so if it _was_ Welsh, some obscure dialect spoken in some isolated northern village, he would not even recognize it. He shook his head in mute apology – and then he had to sit very, very still, until the wave of nausea passed again. Somehow he thought that throwing up all over the young man wouldn’t really help their case.

Meanwhile Gwen, fed up with being ignored – cos really, what were these blokes _thinking_? – decided to take things into her own hand. She sprang to her feet – causing both newcomers to grasp for their swords reflexively and nearly skewering her by pure instinct – and started to talk to the one-armed man, slowly and overly articulated, as if he were talking to a slow-witted child.

“Me,” she pointed at herself. “Lost. Your know, _lost_?”

The young man stared at her in bewilderment. She sighed and tried another approach.

“Phone?” she held her hand to her ear, mimicking the use of a phone, which most likely made the man think that she had problems with her hearing. “Umm… house? Hotel? Taxi rank?” Still no reaction. She stomped with her foot in utter frustration. “Oh, God! HELP ME, GODDAMMIT!!!”

She started swearing profusely and looked at Ianto in defeat. “This is completely hopeless. This man is obviously a moron.”

“I think… the problem is… that he can’t understand you,” Ianto croaked and shivered, shock starting to get to him.

The one-armed man must have noticed it, because he shrugged off his cloak and draped it over Ianto’s bare shoulders with surprising ease. He must have learned a great deal of one-handed skills since losing part of his other arm.

Ianto thanked him. In Welsh. The man seemed to understand _that_ , at least, for he briefly smiled. But whatever it was that he answered, Ianto could not understand. Even if it was the local version of _don’t mention it_.

It didn’t matter though. What mattered was the fine, warm woollen cloak he could wrap around himself like a cocoon. Ianto knew he had to be in shock, from the concussion, from the original explosion that had launched them… well, wherever – or _whenever_ – they were right now; that was what made him shiver, for the morning was sunny and warm. He could have kissed his benefactor, had that not led to dangerous misunderstandings.

The one-armed man was speaking again, gesturing towards his horse. Ianto understood that the men wanted them to ride home with them, and in theory he wouldn’t even be adverse. A house meant a bed and perhaps even a bath to get clean and clothes to borrow. Infinitely preferable to sleeping under the open sky, semi-naked.

The only problem was: he didn’t know how to ride. The last time in a saddle had been on his sixth birthday, when the whole family had gone to visit a pony farm. Right before his father would have lost his tailor shop and had to go to work for Debenham’s to feed his family somehow.

“I’m afraid I’m not really a horseman,” he said in slow, carefully articulated Welsh.

At least he _hoped_ that _that_ was what he said, not something unintentionally obscene. His Welsh, learned during school holidays spent by his fiercely patriotic maternal grandparents, was sporadic at best in these days. For good measure, he carefully patted the back of his own head and made a painful grimace, signalling that his head hurt – another sound reason to keep away from a horse.

The one-armed man seemed to understand his dilemma, because he explained, with the help of a great deal of creative pantomime, that he’ll go slowly and carefully. Then he threw his one good arm across Ianto’s back, grabbed him under the arm and hauled him to his feet. 

One-armed. 

Without help. 

Despite the fact that he was a good head shorter than Ianto and didn’t exactly look like a bodybuilder. 

It was an impressive move; Gwen stared at him with her mouth hanging literally open.

She couldn’t ogle them much longer, though, because the other man rode up to them, leaned down from the saddle, grabbed _her_ under the arms and pulled her onto the horse before him without as much as by-your-leave. Gwen, who had never been on a horse before, screamed and kicked and swore with all her might, but the man held her firmly by the waist, grinning like a loon. Then he pulled the reins, and the horse galloped off, the dirt of the track spraying from its hooves until they reached the upland meadow grass, leaving the dunes behind.

“Gwen!” Ianto cried out anxiously, suddenly very afraid what might happen to her. She wasn’t exactly suited to survive in an unknown environment.

The one-armed man laid a steadying hand upon his shoulder and said something he still could not understand; not entirely. There were two words that sounded somewhat familiar to him in all that Welsh-sounding gibberish, though: the name Owain Gwynedd and something that sounded akin to camp.

That calmed him down a little. Whether these blokes were members of some weird re-enactment society as Gwen had supposed, riding across the country, taking part in the Battle of Crug Mawr or whatever (which still would not explain the very real dead bodies, an aspect that made Ianto extremely uncomfortable), or they had indeed landed in the past (which, in his estimate, wouldn’t be a much better perspective), at least they were now on their way to some sort of encampment. That meant food, hopefully clothes, at least a brychan to sleep on and, if he was incredibly lucky, perhaps even medical help or a bath.

 _If_ he managed to get there in one piece, that is. The necessity of riding a horse still filled his with dread.

The one-armed man was making preparations to leave already. He whistled his horse closer – fortunately, it seemed to be a rather good-natured beast, perhaps trained to carry handicapped people; not surprising, considered his rider – and made Ianto lean against the high, arched neck of the good beast. Then he re-wrapped his cloak around Ianto’s battered body in the style of a Roman toga, fastening it with his own gilded brooch on the shoulder. It was truly amazing what he could do with only one hand and the help of his arm stump.

That done, he guided Ianto’s foot – the one with the remaining shoe – into the stirrup and lifted the much taller man into the saddle with seemingly no effort at all. Then he swung onto the horse himself, taking the reins in his hand, holding Ianto around the waist with his maimed arm. He spoke to the horse softly, and the faithful beast started to walk in a slow, careful pace, following the other rider who had gone off with Gwen for their camp, wherever it might be. Ianto hoped fervently that they would reach their destination without his head getting any worse.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Owain ap Gruffydd, the ruling Prince of Gwynedd, was ready to break camp and leave. He had set up his headquarters in an abandoned farmstead, in order to face the Danish intruders and cast them back into the sea from where they had come. Now that _that_ had been taken care of, he no longer had a reason to stay here. Nor did he want to do so. He had enough other things to deal with, in other parts of Gwynedd.

One more day, and he would take his muster back to Carnarvon, and thence dismiss those with their lands in Arfon and in Anglesey, before continuing on to Aber. After a great deal of thought, he had even decided to suffer Cadwaladr to return with him, and those who knew him best – his son Hywel before anyone else – knew that Cadwaladr would soon be restored to the possession of at least _some_ of his lands. For even though he had caused great harm and made a needful alliance between Gwynedd and Deheubarth impossible, Owain loved his errant brother too much to shut him out of his grace for good.

All they still needed to do was to pick up their dead, and they would be able to leave. They had been fortunate that Cadwaladr’s prideful defiance against his brother had not caused even more deaths, on either side.

Tomorrow, the camp would be dismantled, its improvised defences taken down. The husbandman would come back to his farmhouse, bringing his beasts with him, and return to the care of his land and his stock, as if nothing had happened. As his forefathers had done time after time, giving ground for a while to marauding intruders. They might not have been able to beat such enemies on their own, but they could always outwait, outrun and outlast them. They might have left their expendable homesteads for the hills at the approach of an enemy, but they had only left them to return and to rebuild.

This time would not be any different. The Welsh were a people of great endurance.

Hywel must have had similar thoughts as his father, for his usually so bright eyes were clouded with regret as he looked out towards the sea.

“Well,” he said, pondering gains and losses, “all seems to have ended to every-one’s satisfaction. We settled what might well have been a bloody business with as little loss of lives as possible, and now life can return to whatever level of sanity men holding old grudges may hope to achieve. You will restore Cadwaladr, no doubt, even though only on probation for the time being. And the Danes have their fee.”

“It was promised,” his father said simply.

“I do not grudge it,” Hywel replied. “It might have cost far more. And yet two thousand marks of silver cannot buy back the lives of Otir’s three young men who are now being brought back to Dublin for burial. Nor those few of Gwion’s following that we have picked up dead from the surf. Nor Gwion himself, a victim of his own displaced, unmovable loyalty – which I consider the heaviest loss of all.”

“’Tis always a waste if a good man dies for the wrong case,” the Prince of Gwynedd agreed. “But we cannot blame him for his faithfulness; and in the end, he died in peace. I wish we had more men of his unwavering honesty; albeit perchance of a more adaptable mind.”

They laughed, quietly and a little sadly, for while the losses, both in wealth and in lives, had been limited, they had also been wholly unnecessary. And both Owain and his second-born hated waste. Then Hywel, whose eyes were still cast seawards, spotted something – or rather _someone_ – in that direction, still far away; and he frowned.

“It seems that Cuhelyn and his men are returning already. I wonder how they had managed to shroud those corpses in such a short time.”

“They, too, wish to return home as much as every-one else, I suppose,” Owain Gwynedd replied with a shrug. “When the home fires burn brightly, the hands work in a great haste, ‘tis said.”

But it was not Cuhelyn’s men who were returning early. It was a lonely horseman (whom they soon recognized as Goronwy ap Ithel, their trusted scout from Bangor), holding a screaming, kicking wench before him in the saddle.

At least Owain _thought_ it was a wench. She had womanly enough curves in all the right places, even though she was clad like a man, and in a rather outlandish fashion, at that. And her screech was worse than that of a barn owl.

“Now, Goronwy,” said the Prince of Gwynedd, his mood pending somewhere between amusement and outrage, “would you care to explain what have you dragged before my threshold – and, more importantly, _why_?”

“That, my lord, is a more complicated question than you would think,” answered Goronwy. "I for my part will wait for Cuhelyn to give an explanation - assuming that he can.”


	4. Chapter 3 - Prince Owain Weighs In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to avoid any misunderstandings: in medieval sense, a leech was also a field surgeon: someone who dealt with battle wounds on the spot. *g*

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER THREE – PRINCE OWAIN WEIGHS IN**

Ianto felt more dead than alive when the horse finally trotted up with him and his one-armed protector to an impressively well-organized camp, set up around an old farmhouse the likes of which he had only ever seen in museums - displayed as models or dioramas. The hastily-raised defences revealed that the people within the fence were accepting battle… or rather had been, as some of said defences were being dismantled right now. 

The tents had been set up following a pattern he could not quite figure out in his current state of mind, but there was a square left open in front of the house itself; supposedly the place where the warlord of the camp would listen to the reports of his scouts.

A young man, surely no more than twenty and clad rather splendidly, in the fashion of a courtier rather than that of a warrior, came forth from the house to take the reins, moving with an easy confidence and grace. He was a tall fellow, at least compared with everyone else around them, and fair-skinned, with short, curly hair of a light, reddish brown. He wore gemstones about his neck, signalling either high rank or high birth – or both.

“Cuhelyn!” he said, by way of greeting the one-armed man, who nodded back at him.

His flashing grin was mischievous but amiable; it reminded Ianto painfully of Jack’s. He then continued in the same not-quite-Welsh that the one-armed warrior - whose name was apparently Cuhelyn - had used, turning to Ianto and measuring him from aching head to bandaged foot with one brilliant glance.

Ianto shook his head apologetically – and swayed in the saddle. That made the others aware of his condition, and two pairs of strong hands (well, one pair and a half, to be more accurate) helped him down to the solid ground. Cuhelyn seemed to explain the young courtier something, calling him Hywel (which was the only thing Ianto understood) in a low voice. Hywel nodded, called out to someone, and soon more people came, servants by their simple garb, and supported Ianto from both side, helping him to get inside the farmhouse.

Within, it was still chilly from the night. The house had been dug to one third into the earth, and thus it would not warm up so quickly. It was also dimly-lit, having no windows at all, with the open door as the only source of illumination. But at least it had a roof and a small fire in the central firepit – a hundred per cent improvement to the sandy shore of Afron Menai… if that was truly their current location.

Plus, Ianto saw with relief that they had brought Gwen here, too. She seemed unhurt and was not bound, either, although one of the servants apparently kept a close and wary eye on her. Ianto wondered what kind of temper tantrums she must have thrown during the short time they had been separated if they were already wary of her.

Seeing Ianto arrive, she jumped to her feet with a shriek of relief and ran to him, shaking off any hand that would try to stop her.

“Oh, Ianto, thank God, I thought I’d never see you again!” she exclaimed in tears. “I thought these Neanderthals were gonna kill me. Or rape me. Oh, I was so _scared_! I don’t even have a gun on me to protect myself. Or at least a stun gun.”

She made a move to grab him in a bear hug – what his bruised ribs probably wouldn’t have survived intact – but someone caught her by the waist and held her steadily in place. It was the young man dressed like a courtier, Hywel. Gwen screamed and swore and kicked about, even jabbed him viciously in the ribs with an elbow, but the young man just held her with an amused grin, making Ianto revise his first impression of him. He knew from personal experience how feisty Gwen could be if she didn’t get her way. If that young man could efficiently immobilize her without breaking a sweat, he must have been stronger than his lithe shape indicated. A _lot_ stronger.

Cuhelyn the one-armed came in after them and said something to Hywel. Hywel nodded and sent the servants to fetch something with a simple nod, making Ianto wonder whether this truly was some re-enactment game. He began to seriously doubt it. These blokes seemed to take the whole thing too seriously. No, no seriously; both Hywel and Cuhelyn appeared fairly amused about Gwen’s antics. But this… this _medieval_ behaviour seemed to come too naturally to them to be merely role-playing 

The house, too, no longer seemed to be some exhibition relic. It was _old_ , stained in some places and had a _used_ look to it. Like a place that had seen generations grow up and die under its roof. The tents, the clothes, the horses, the horse-gear… all seemed way too genuine and well-worn to be mere costumes or tools in a game.

Therefore the only logical explanation could be that they had indeed landed in the past, courtesy of the Rift. 

Or the explosion. 

Or the combination of the two. 

Now if he could only figure out _when_!

But he felt too exhausted to think straight right now. The relative safety of the house, the hurting that appeared to spread through every cell of his body by now, and the concussion ganged up on him to knock him out. Even Gwen’s continuing screams seemed to come from far, far away, although he wondered briefly how she’d be able to cope with the ugly truth…

“Quickly!” said Hywel ab Owain, letting go of the shrieking wench and catching the young man as he was starting to fall. “Prepare his bedding; he’s passing out on us again. And someone fetch that old monk with his herbal remedies!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Brother Cadfael and Brother Mark were ready to go. Their errand to Landelwy and Bangor had come to a successful end and they’d had more adventures on the way than bargained for, including battles, captivity and the murder of a travelling companion. All they wanted was to go home: Cadfael to Shrewsbury Abbey and Mark to the house of Bishop de Clinton in Lichfield, where he was currently the youngest deacon, on his way to full priesthood. As they both travelled light, they did not have much packing to do and were prepared to set off in the next morning.

They were about to pray _None_ together when a young serving boy burst into the tent in which they had been given shelter for the night, looking excited and slightly mortified in equal measure.

“Brother Cadfael, would you come to the farmhouse?” he asked. “Cuhelyn has brought in a wounded man – and such a strange one not even Old Rhodri has seen the like. But he’s hurt and keeps passing out. Rhodri says he must have hit his head, hard.”

“In that your Old Rhodri is probably right,” Cadfael said amiably. “Slow down a bit, child. I shall come with you in a minute; I just need to find my scrip first.”

His curiosity picked at once, he left Brother Mark to his prayers – with a mental note to do penance later – and followed the boy, Bran was his name if he remembered correctly, to the farmhouse that served as temporary infirmary and storage room for Owain’s troops. The Prince himself stayed in his tent, as did the nobles of his court, but wounded people and supplies were kept better under a solid roof.

Fortunately, no-one from Owain’s men had been seriously wounded. After a quick yet thorough dressing to their wounds, they had insisted on returning to their comrades and neither Cadfael nor Owain’s own leech had seen any reason why they couldn’t. Thus the farmhouse was basically empty, save for the strange wench Goronwy had brought in less than an hour earlier – Cadfael had been witness to their spectacular and, above all else, very _loud_ arrival – and the wounded man Cuhelyn had found with her.

Owain’s servants had done their usual good job by the time Cadfael reached the single inner chamber of the house. They had made a comfortable enough bedding for the wounded, from several brychans that they had folded and laid at the beaten dirt floor, and someone was already boiling water, knowing that the healer would ask for it.

“Would you need anything else, Brother?” asked Old Rhodri, the Prince’s most trusted manservant for twenty and more years.

“Some clean rags if you can provide them,” replied Cadfael, “and a bowl in which I can wash them. Other than that, I’ll be fine on my own, as long as there’s enough hot water to use.”

“You’ll have everything you need,” promised Old Rhodri. “Whatever it is, just ask and Bran will fetch it for you.” 

Intrigued, Cadfael looked down at the badly bruised yet well-made body of the young man who, according to Bran, was so strange that not even Old Rhodri had ever seen any-one like him before.

“Where he might have come, I marvel? He’s clearly Welsh, his face reveals it, but who’s seen a Welshman this tall… and this soft, at his age?”

“Cuhelyn thinks he must be a clerk of some sort,” said the old servant.

“That’s more likely, “agreed Cadfael. “Look at these hands: they have never wielded a sword or held a plough.”

“Nor does his wench looks like someone who’d have worked as much as a single day in her whole life,” added Old Rhodri with an unfriendly glare in the direction of the oddly-clad woman who was crouching down next to the fire, hugging her knees and muttering angrily under her breath.

“You think she’s his wife?” asked Cadfael, dipping the rag Bran had just provided into the warm water and began to wash the blood and the grime off his patient’s chest. 

He saw with relief that there were no serious injuries. Cuts and bruises, surely, of the kind one would suffer when slipping out and rolling down a hillside, for example, but nothing more dangerous. He carefully patted down the now clean torso, mindful of ribs that might be broken, trying to find out the extent of internal damage by touch. To his relief he found no broken ribs, though some of them might have been bruised.

“Why would he wed such an old hag?” Old Rhodri was still pondering over Cadfael’s question. “She’s at least ten years older, scrawny, loud-mouthed – and have you seen her teeth? And he well-made and pleasant to look at… he can do a lot better.”

“She might have had a rich dowry, though,” pointed out Cadfael. “He might not have a say in it if their parents have arranged the marriage.”

Old Rhodri shook his head. “Had she money, she wouldn’t roam the country, dressed up like a man. No, there’s something truly wrong with her… with both of them, I suppose. How comes that no-one can speak with them? They don’t understand either Welsh or English. Hywel even tried French; he speaks the Norman dialect fairly well, but she just looked at him with those big, scared rabbit eyes and began to sob. Goronwy is right: she _must_ be mad.”

Cadfael shook his head while taking out the jar with the ointment made of centaury and cleaves and a roll of clean linen from his scrip to dress the young man’s wounds.

“That’s not certain, my friend. Perhaps she’s just foreign and scared. Who wouldn’t be, among people they do not know, speaking a language they cannot understand?”

“But how can she not understand either Welsh or English?” wondered Old Rhodri. “She cannot have come from some far-away, foreign land; like the lad, she looks Welsh enough. Yet even if they _had_ come from the other side of the border, they ought to speak at least English; or some French if they were nobly born. Although she doesn’t look like some fine lady to me.”

“Neither does he look like some lordling; he’d have at least sword calluses in that case,” Cadfael finished dressing the wounds and rolled his patient onto his front. The young man’s back was in no worse condition than his chest – save for some large, discoloured bruises on the small of his back where he must have been hit very hard. Fallen, perhaps, from some great height; or thrown against a stone wall with brutal force.

“That doesn’t look good,” commented Old Rhodri. “If he damaged his backbone, he’s going to be in pain for a long time… and there’s little any healer could do for him.”

“At the very least I can treat the bruises,” replied Cadfael. “As for the rest… we’ll have to allow his body to heal itself. He’s young and healthy – he has good chances.”

He anointed the bruises on the back, too, and then rolled the young man over again, mindful of the possibly injured backbone. Then he turned his attention to the bandaged feet.

“Bran my lad,” he said, “bring me a fresh bowl of water and another rag, just to be prepared for the worst. Who knows in which shape this leg is in.”

He took a sharp, sturdy little knife from his scrip and prepared to cut the makeshift bandage off the injured foot.

In the next moment, there was an ear-splitting screech, and he was hit by a whirlwind – or so it seemed. The furious attack knocked him off his feet, and he felt small but painfully hard fists hit him rapidly, while the screaming went on and on and on...

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Once again, Ianto came back to consciousness to Gwen’s voice. No; to Gwen’s _screams_ would have been the proper expression.

“You stupid old git, don’t you _dare_ to hurt him!” she was screaming and, by the thudding noise, she was also hitting someone with her fists, while the pitch of her voice was rising steadily, reaching a particularly splitting quality that could have shatter glass. 

Or someone’s already concussed head.

“Gwen,” Ianto groaned, “would you shut up? You’re killing me with your screeching. Got a concussion, remember?”

The screaming stopped at once. Gwen let go of whomever she was pummelling into the ground and leaned over him anxiously.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to… but that priest tried to do something to you with a _knife_! I couldn’t just let him...”

“Wait,” Ianto interrupted. “What priest?”

Gwen helped him to sit up, very slowly, so that he could take a look around. As far as he could tell, they were still in the farmhouse, and he had been washed and his small wounds cleaned and dressed. The only pain he still felt was in his head and in his lover back. He must have fragmented his vertebrae when touching ground after the explosion. There could be no other explanation.

“Him!” Gwen pointed accusingly at a short, squarely-built, grizzled man in a rough, rusty black habit. That and his tonsured head clearly marked him as a monk. Gwen’s attack must have surprised him, as he was looking at them with round, shocked brown eyes. He had indeed a knife in one hand, had even cut himself under Gwen’s onslaught, and seemed utterly mystified what might have caused Gwen’s ferocious reaction.

“Gwen,” Ianto murmured. “I think you overreacted. This old guy must be their herbalist or whatever. I don’t believe he tried to harm me.”

“But… but the knife…”

“Oh, yes, the knife, sure,” Ianto held out his hand and said in Welsh, slowly, carefully forming every word. “Brother, may I have the knife?”

The old monk looked at him in puzzlement but seemed to guess what he wanted, because he surrendered the knife. Ianto took it, cut the tie with which the bandage had been fastened, and handed the knife back to its owner.

“Thank you,” he said in Welsh.

The old monk suddenly grinned, the laughing lines around his eyes and the twinkling of said eyes showing him ten years younger at once, and said something along the lines of _don’t mention it_ , by the tone of his voice. Then he pointed at himself and said, slowly and carefully forming the words as Ianto had done before.

“Cadfael,” which was most likely his name. “Cadfael ab Meilyr ab Rhys.”

Yes, clearly his name, given in the old manner still used sporadically. The fact that he said _ab_ instead of _ap_ signalled that he either belonged to a much older time or took this whole role-playing business way too seriously. 

For his part, Ianto would have bet on the former.

He hesitated for a moment, not quite sure how he should introduce himself; then he decided that _in for a penny, in for a pound_ and pointed at himself.

“Iefan,” he said. “Iefan ab Ieuan,” then he pointed at Gwen and introduced her, too. “Gwen.” He didn’t add any father-name, not quite certain yet how he would describe these people their relationship – if they ever got over the language barrier, that is.

The old monk nodded, apparently pleased even by such a small progress in understanding. Gwen, on the other hand, looked at Ianto with a frown.

“Ianto, why didn’t you tell me your true name?”

“I did,” he explained patiently, “in a form that they can understand. I don’t think the concept of shortening a name would be wide-spread in this time; and using an English-sounding surname probably wouldn’t be such a good idea.”

Gwen shook her head in confusion. “What do you mean? Are you trying to buy into the stupid game of these recreation types? What for? Sooner or later we _will_ find a phone and call for help and get out of this… wherever this is, won’t we?”

“I’m afraid that’s all wishful thinking,” Ianto replied grimly. “You must face the facts, Gwen: we _have_ been displaced in time as well as in space. These guys aren’t playing; they are _real_ , I think. We don’t understand them because the language they speak is several hundred years older than ours. It’s that simple… or that complicated, depending on your vantage point.”

“No. Nonononono,” Gwen shook her head. “That’s not right. That _can’t_ be right.”

“Can’t it? Jack could come back more than three thousand years, the Doctor can travel through time at will, but the Rift can’t have displaced us in time?” Ianto rolled his eyes. “Get real, Gwen!”

“No, _you_ get real!” Gwen snapped. “I know you hit your head, but this is ridiculous! The Doctor has the TARDIS; Jack has his vortex thingy…”

“Vortex _manipulator_ ,” Ianto corrected in mild annoyance. Gwen waved him off.

“Whatever. They both use alien tech to hop time. We had nothing like that on us when the Hub was blown up.”

“We had the Rift,” Ianto pointed out logically.

“Oh, sure, cos the Rift sends people back to the past all time,” Gwen said sarcastically.

Ianto gave her an exasperated glare. “You _have_ seen Flat Holm, haven’t you? How can you still deny that the Rift is more than capable of sending people to the strangest places… or times? Or have you forgotten Jonah Bevan?”

To that Gwen had no answer, and now that she had finally shut up, Ianto could hear the respectful silence filling the house. Looking up, he saw that everyone, with the exception of the old monk, had gone down on a bent knee, and a second glance also revealed why.

In the open door, scanning the inside of the house with keen, brilliant blue eyes (so eerily like Jack’s that Ianto felt a dull pain in his chest that had _nothing_ to do with his bruised ribs) stood a man who could only be the warlord of this camp. He was very tall for a Welshman, even for one from Ianto’s own time, and fair like a Viking chieftain from some old historic movie, with a shrewd blue gaze and a close-trimmed golden beard. He seemed barely forty, in his vigorous prime; the strength of his charismatic personality filling the entire house.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Owain Gwynedd took in the scene before his eyes with one stern glance; then he looked at Old Rhodri.

“What happened?” he asked in a clipped tone. The dishevelled state of the old monk, an honoured guest under his protection, had not gone unnoticed by him and he was ready to make his displease very obvious.

“That mad wench Goronwy had brought in attacked the good brother here,” summarized Rhodri. He had the gift to cut to the core of any event, no matter how twisted.

“’Twas a misunderstanding,” Cadfael said hurriedly. “I wanted to cut the bandages; she saw the knife and thought I’d try to harm her travelling companion. She just wanted to protect him.”

“I do not take kindly when my guests are attacked, no matter for what reasons,” Owain looked at the sullen wench still being held by two servants. “Have you learned anything about her?”

“Well, her name is apparently Gwen,” replied Old Rhodri, “and that of the young man is Iefan… though she called him Ianto. A pet name from his childhood, surely.”

“Both good Welsh names, though,” said the Prince thoughtfully. “Could they be related in some way? Or even married?”

“If they are, she’s clearly used to have her way in all things,” answered Cadfael. “I doubt that this young man – or any-one else, for that matter – has ever put her in her place. She has been doubtlessly spoiled, the way late children or, indeed, only children, sometimes are. I do not believe they would be siblings, though. There’s no likeness between them, nether in features, nor in colouring.”

“That must not mean anything,” said Owain. “They could come from different mothers. My own children look different enough, too.”

“Perhaps,” Cadfael smiled, “but they all show the same grace. Still, I have no hope that we can learn much about these two by their mere looks. Not ‘til we find a way to understand them.”

“They still haven't shown any knowledge of either Welsh or English?” asked the Prince.

“The young man seems to speak a language that has a vague likeness to southern Welsh,” admitted Cadfael, “as it would be spoken in Morgannwg or certain parts of Powys. But whatever dialect it might be, I cannot understand it, despite the familiar sound. He seems to have the same difficulty with our dialect. I believe though that, given enough time, we can learn to understand each other. He seems to have a keen and observant mind.”

The Prince nodded in satisfaction. Now, with the Danes gone, they had all the time in the world to figure out the mystery surrounding their peculiar visitors.

“What about her?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the wench who was darkly muttering under her breath but no longer tried to shake off the servants holding her – which would have been a hopeless thing anyway.

Cadfael shrugged. “They use a different language among themselves; one I’ve never heard before. Sometimes I think to hear a familiar French word, or a Saxon one, but it always turns out a mere illusion. What do you intend to do with them, my lord?”

It was Owain’s turn to shrug. “They cannot stay here, for certain, so we’ll take them to Aber for the time being. I’ll make the final decision after I’ve learned more about them. Can the young man be moved?”

“He won’t be able to ride to Aber on his own,” Cadfael warned promptly. “His backbone is bruised, at the very least, and so are some of his ribs. He also must have hit his head pretty hard, if the big lump on the back of his head is any indication. Riding would make him nauseous and worsen his condition considerably. He needs rest, first and foremost.”

“We shall provide him with a litter, then, fastened between two horses,” the Prince decided. “Brother, would there be any way to borrow you from your cloister for a little longer? My leech is good with battle wounds, but I would sleep better if you took care for my unexpected guest for a while yet. At least ‘til we’d come to some kind of understanding.”

Cadfael considered the request for a moment, then he nodded.

“I believe it’s doable,” he said. “Brother Mark is due to set off for home tomorrow. If you send a courier with him to see him home safely, he can also take a letter to Shrewsbury Abbey. Father Abbot is a reasonable man who values the peace between Gwynedd and Shropshire highly. He will give his consent.”

“Very good,” said the Prince in the same clipped tone as before. “See to the wounds of our guest here. Rhodri, he’ll need some clothes, too, as his have been torn to shreds.”

“That will be not easy, my lord,” said the old servant. “I do not believe we have spares for a man of his height.”

Owain gave the semi-naked patient a measuring look.

“I’ll survive if I keep on the clothes I’m wearing now,” he decided. “He’s about my height, and has the breadth to fill out my spares. Once we’re back in Aber, we can have some clothes made for him.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Old Rhodri glanced at the woman. “What about her?”

“She’s unhurt, I see,” replied Owain. “Let her keep her strange garb. At home, we’ll find something for her that matches her status – whatever it is.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gwen didn’t like the dismissive look the big, golden-haired warrior gave her a bit. Who did this bloke think he was? The Prince of Wales?

“Actually, I think that is exactly what he is,” Ianto said quietly, while the old monk carefully removed the bandage from his foot, washed it clean and inspected the damage. 

It wasn’t a pretty sight. The sole of his foot was covered in scratches and cuts. There was even a bruise here and there.

“What do you mean?” Gwen demanded, not realizing that she had spoken her thought aloud.

“I mean, he _is_ the Prince of Wales,” Ianto winced as the old monk pulled out a few thorns that he could see by the light of the fire. “Or rather _one_ Prince of Wales. If I’m right, we’ve landed in the middle of the twelfth century, and this man is no lesser person that Owain Gwynedd, king of the kingdom of Gwynedd in all but title.”

“But… but you can’t be right!” Gwen insisted, watching with wide, shocked eyes the old monk anoint Ianto’s foot, then wrap it in fresh bandages, tying it surely. “That can’t be. It just can’t. We can’t have gotten nine hundred years in the past! That would mean I could never go home!”

“Neither can I,” Ianto pointed out dryly, “and do you hear _me_ whine about it?”

“That’s easy for you to say!” she snapped. “You’ve got no-one to return to! You’ve got no _life_ to return to! But me… I’ve got Rhys waiting for me, and our baby, and…”

She trailed off, because Ianto had gone rigid and became absolutely white, and there was such a rage in his normally patiently amused blue eyes that for a moment she thought he would hit her. Or strangle her. It was a relief that he could barely move around on his own… although she didn’t understand what his problem was, really. His life _had_ been Torchwood, hadn’t it? And Torchwood was gone now, the Hub blown to smithereens, and Jack…

Oh God, JACK!!!

The memory of Jack made her break down in tears. Would Jack be able to come back to life again, after having been torn to shreds by that bomb? Would he be able to find them? To find _her_? To take her home before she would grow bigger than that space whale from pregnancy?

Ianto sighed and stopped himself in the last moment before shaking his head. The concussion and the accompanying nausea were rapidly breaking him out of the habit. He felt tired and heartbroken and not strong enough to deal with Gwen’s shit right now. He turned to the golden-haired Prince instead, who was watching their interaction with narrowed eyes, clearly not liking what he saw.

“What is to become of us, my lord?” he asked in Welsh, trying to make a more or less sane impression. _One_ of them had to.

The man who must have been the Prince of Gwynedd tilted his head to the side and answered something in that not-quite-Welsh all the others were using. Consequently, Ianto didn’t understand him. The only world he could figure out was the name of _Abergwyngregyn_ – but that was more than enough. 

They were going to _Aber_! Situated at the mouth of the River Rhaeadr-fawr, four miles east of Bangor, just a small village about half-a-mile from the coast in Ianto’s own time; in the century, however, in which the Rift had sent them, Owain Gwynedd’s _llys_. The royal seat of the commote of Allechwedd Uchaf and the favourite residence of the Princes of Gwynedd! For near seventy years the centre of true Welsh power and the source of resistance against the Norman conquerors. Ianto’s head, already muddled by the concussion, reeled from the perspective.

Seeing that Ianto had at least understood their destination, the Prince held up one finger, then put his hands together and laid his face on them, closing his eyes, signalling sleep, and finally mimicked waking up and riding off. The message was clear enough: they would sleep here tonight, and then leave in the morning for Aber. 

It was fine with Ianto, really. Whatever Aber might look like in the twelfth century, it could only be better than a war camp. He just hoped that the long ride would not kill him halfway there.


	5. Chapter 4 - The Way to Aber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit that I’m not making fun of Gwen in the first part. Well, not entirely. I’ve encountered such places – at least similar ones – in both France and Romania, and still have the nightmares.
> 
> According to my research, _llymru_ is simply oats steeped in water, and then cooked until they become solid, usually eaten with buttermilk. I’m sure Gwen appreciated the taste.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER FOUR – THE WAY TO ABER**

While Ianto spent the night in not too much discomfort, due to whatever that old hippy herbalist who was dressed up as a monk had given him for the pain, Gwen Cooper was one unhappy woman. She had been just woken up at what must have been the worst night’s sleep she had ever had, and that in some ungodly hour. It was still barely dawning in the outside. Did these blokes never sleep? Or had they subscribed to the pre-industrial custom of working from daybreak to sunset?

She felt dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. There had been no bed, just some woollen blankets thrown onto the beaten dirt floor to sleep on, and the room had been full of smoke. As a result, her back was killing her; in fact, she ached all over. Her head was throbbing and felt as if it had been full of wet cotton; and her eyes teared up as soon as she had opened them. Her mouth was dry and tasted of old carpets, and she had not brushed her teeth for… well, ever since they had landed in the middle of these re-enacting lunatics.

She reached a hand to her hair – her best feature, the one people always admired – and groaned in despair. Her usually so great hair was matted; no doubt full of dirt, perhaps even lice from those filthy blankets. She sighed, her tears flowing freely now. This was hateful, just hateful. She tried to run her fingers through her hair but gave up after the first attempt as completely pointless. She just smoothed it down as best as she could and left it at that, grateful that none of her friends would see her in such a state. Carrie, Trina and Megan would be shocked, absolutely shocked, could they see her now!

Right after that, she realized a new problem. She _needed_. Desperately. And she had no clue where these guys had hidden the loo. _If_ they had one. Perhaps they just faced the next best tree. They were all blokes, after all, with a deeply unfair advantage in that area.

As in direct contradiction to her thoughts, a serving wench walked into the house in that very moment, carrying a copper washing bowl and a jug of water. A short, squat, curly-haired woman with a round, freckled face and merry, dark eyes. The sleeves of her drab homespun dress were rolled up, revealing impressively strong forearms. She simply placed bowl and jug onto the floor; then she left, only to return with a large, folded place of rough linen, a bar of soap, a brush and a comb. She handed all these utensils to Gwen and indicated the washing bowl.

“Terrific,” Gwen muttered. “These people are all mad. _This_ is their idea of a proper bath? Historic authenticity is nice and good, but must they really go so far?”

Besides, she still _needed_. And if she did not do something about it _now_ , things could become really, really embarrassing. On the previous day, she was too upset and dehydrated and exhausted to even think about such things, but now… 

She tugged on the woman’s skirt. “Please,” she began, hating the begging tone of her own voice. “Please, I _must_ … I need to go to the loo…” she pressed her knees together to demonstrate the problem.

For a moment, the woman just looked at her, bewildered. Then she realized what Gwen wanted, and she beckoned her with a conspiratory grin. Gwen followed her with renewed hope. They went across the courtyard and beyond the stables on the opposite side of the house from where the tents were being dismantled. A little further behind the stables a wooden door was cut into the turf. The woman grinned and pointed at the door.

The stench coming from there was unbelievable – dead Weevil would have been fragrant in comparison – but it also made clear that Gwen had been brought to the exact place where she had wanted to go. She gagged; but she had no other choice. It was either this, or squatting down in full sight of a small army of barking mad blokes who believed they were medieval warriors.

She glanced back, but the woman was already halfway across the courtyard, heading back to the farmhouse, rolling her wide hips in a manner that made the grooms at the stables whistle in appreciation. One of them even caught her around the waist and playfully grabbed her breast. She gave him a big clout upside the head and went on, laughing.

Gwen groaned. She had clearly ended up in a madhouse. She would have to watch her back carefully, if this was the accepted way for men to treat women.

But first she had to solve her current problem… and, as Jack would have said, there was no other way but through. She gritted her teeth, held her breath and opened the wooden door.

She very nearly closed it again. She had thought the stench was bad outside? Well, it was a hundred times worse inside. Were these people bloody insane? What had historic authenticity to do with having – or, in this case, rather _not_ having – proper toilets? God, they had to be ridden with diseases! And she had just slept among them, under their filthy blankets! She shuddered and dared a tentative step inside.

She came into a small, windowless chamber, dug into the hillside. Its floor was generously strewn with straw and seemed surprisingly clean, considering… well, just about _everything_ she’d seen here so far. At the opposite end, however, was a hole. A large hole in the floor… and that was it, basically. There were marks in the earth on both sides of it, clearly marking the place where people had stood or squatted before her; and a large pile of leaves, both green and dry. 

She was supposed to use _that_? Instead of proper toilet paper? No way in seven hells!

But there was no other choice. The sharp pain in her belly intensified, warning her that she really needed to do something about her… erm… _needs_ now. She could feel her tears start again. This was one of the worst experiences of her life, and considering what she had seen during her two years with Torchwood already, that was saying a lot! Even such a dank place as the Hub had basic sanitary facilities.

There was no help, though. Bracing herself for the vile things that were yet to come, Gwen Cooper made another valiant step towards the hole.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When she returned to the house, the water in the jug was still reasonably warm, even though she nearly spilled it all, not having expected the whole thing to be so _heavy_. Nonetheless, she managed to hit the copper bowl with the water and was luxuriating in the chance to have at least a quick wash. 

Granted, the soap did not lather and left some sort of disgusting, slimy layer on her skin. She rubbed it away with the brush, acquiring livid pink scratches in the process; marks that she had _not_ had before. The towel was a square piece of non-absorbent linen; plus it scratched like sandpaper. But she managed to dry herself… more or less. At least now she was reasonably clean.

She was so not looking forward to get back into her torn, stained and smelly clothes; but since she had no spares with her, she could not avoid it. At least she still _had_ clothes, unlike Ianto. She dressed in a hurry and attacked her hair. She hadn’t had a chance to wash it, and she seriously doubted that these loonies would have either shampoo or conditioner here. Or a toothbrush. Or toothpaste. Or – oh, God! – deodorant. At least the comb worked well enough.

She had just brought herself into some semblance of order when the woman from before stuck her curly head into the doorway and said something. Gwen scowled.

“I don’t understand you, you stupid cow!”

The woman shrugged and beckoned her. Still resentful, Gwen followed her out of the house, and to the awning where breakfast was being distributed: some sort of _llymru_ , served with weak ale. It was disgusting; she could barely force it down, but she had to eat _something_. And, of course, there was no hope to brush her teeth afterwards and so wash the vile taste out of her month.

After breakfast she watched as Ianto was laid onto a litter, which then got fastened between two horses. She wanted to go to him – come to think, she had not even realized before that he no longer was in the house – but for some reason, these reconstruction fanatics wouldn’t let her get close. Instead, the old servant the others called Rhodri (which was a common enough name, proving clearly that Ianto was insane and they hadn’t landed in the past) grabbed her at the elbow and led her to the stables.

“Trefor!” he called out sharply.

A lean, sinewy, bearded man in his early thirties came to answer the call; probably one of the grooms if his drab brown clothes were any indication. The old servant told him something, at which the guy called Trefor looked at Gwen with obvious disgust. He even tried to protest, by the tone of his voice, but the older man repeated what sounded like orders, mentioning the name _Owain_ , and so Trefor shrugged and obviously accepted the inevitable.

He turned to Gwen and said something unintelligible. Gwen glared at him with a scowl. Could these freaks not understand that she didn’t speak their gibberish? Why did they expect _everyone_ to adapt to their stupid games? She shrugged and shook her head. Trefor rolled his eyes. He went back into the stable, then reappeared again, leading a scruff, dun-coloured little horse on reins. He gestured at the saddle, clearly expecting Gwen to climb into it – which she couldn’t do on her own. So she shrugged again and shook her head.

The man scowled impatiently, grabbed her around the waist and lifted her onto the horse. Then he swung into the saddle to sit in front of her and tapped the beast’s flank with his foot and set it off to join the Prince’s gathering household. Gwen wobbled behind him, trying to keep her balance and trying very hard _not_ to touch him at the same time because, frankly, he stank. Absolutely reeked of… she didn’t know of _what_ exactly, but the unwashed odour, mixed with the smell of horse, was gut-wrenching.

“Oh, God!” she whispered. “Someone’s _so_ going to die for this!”

They joined the Prince’s household, consisting mostly of couriers on their small, agile horses and a few servants who had done the cooking for the troops, aside from the ones around the Prince’s person. The only other women in the entire camp seemed to be the ones sitting on a wain. One was the wench who had showed Gwen the loo earlier (and seemed to be very _friendly_ with the grooms). Her name was apparently Earonn. 

The other woman was a head taller and twice Earonn’s girth (which was considerably on its own), called Dylis. She seemed older, her russet hair twisted into a neat coil on the back of her head and gathered in a dark green velvet bonnet, trimmed with gold embroidery; her pale blue eyes spoke of Northern origins. She must have had some authority here because the men were oddly deferential towards her. Perhaps she was sponsoring their stupid game or whatnot; her dress, made of fine wool, spoke of wealth.

She was clearly meant to travel on the wain, together with Earonn, as Gwen realized enviously. Sure, a horse’s back would probably have broken under her weight, but why had these blokes taken her with them in the first place? Certainly not for her looks – who in their right mind would want to have someone like _that_ around? She must have pumped a lot of money into their fake medieval fantasy. _Especially_ as she could afford the relative comfort of a wain, the canvas of which would protect her from both harsh sunshine and rain, while everyone else had to travel on horseback.

Gwen kept looking at the wain mournfully but no-one seemed to notice. She had to accept the only means of transportation offered to her: sitting behind her stinking companion. God, she _hated_ it! Hated the stupid horse, hated the unwashed bloke before her, this whole place, these lunatics who fancied themselves medieval warriors!

Finally, the mounted men formed some sort of train – the actual pattern eluded Gwen as neither she, nor Rhys had ever been particularly fond of medieval war games, although the sheer _numbers_ of them were mind-boggling – to set off for… well wherever they were about to go. Who would have thought that there were so many lunatics in Wales alone? Or _were_ they making a film after all, and about to move to a different location?

As they followed what was probably some sort of support train, the bloke named Trefor reached back, grabbed her arm and pulled it forward, wrapping it around his waist. Gwen pulled her arm away immediately.

“Oi, mate!” she snapped. “Whaddaya think you’re playing here? If you believe I’m getting fresh with you, you’re bonkers!”

A memory surfaced unexpectedly, and she froze. Was this the same bloke who had groped Earonn’s boobs just an hour ago? Was he? Did he probably think he could do the same to Gwen Cooper? She shuddered. Ewwwww! Well, if _that_ was what he was thinking, he had another thing coming.

The bloke shrugged and muttered something that didn’t sound friendly. As they reached a dirt track, he spurred the horse into a trot to catch up with the other grooms and servants. Gwen was bouncing up and down uncomfortably behind him. This was _not_ helping her head – and it made her arse hurt. And other parts of her anatomy she didn’t even want to think of right now.

“Oi!” she yelled again. “Does this bloody animal have to… to _jump_ so much? Can’t it just, you know, _walk_?”

The man didn’t answer. He simply spurred the horse into a canter, as they were already behind the train. As the horse sprang forward, Gwen screeched and started sliding away to one side. The man muttered and oath (that she thankfully didn’t understand) and reached back instinctively to stop her from falling off. Also steered by pure survival instinct, Gwen grabbed him round the waist with both arms.

When she realized what she’d done, she nearly fell off the horse anyway. But what was done was done, and since she couldn’t change it, she could as well hold on, couldn’t she? So she did hold on, clinging on for dear life, screwing her eyes tightly shut (wishing she could do the same with her nose), as she pressed her face into his back. God, he stank. More than any living man should have been allowed to stink, even if they had the delusion of living in the twelfth century.

Well, she didn’t have any other option than to hold on right now. They were out in the wilds. But sooner or later they _had_ to hit a proper road. And as soon as she saw anyone, or a car coming by, she was jumping off this ugly beast and running like the wind. It could only be a matter of time now. The wild areas of Wales couldn’t be _that_ big, could they? There ought to be a town somewhere in reach, soon.

The thought that she had no idea where to find Ianto in this crowd didn’t even occur to her. Or why they had been separated. She just wanted to go home.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Riding after the support train as part of the Prince’s _teulu_ , his household guard, Cuhelyn ab Einion watched the strange wench with growing suspicion. What, by the holy bones of Saint Gwenfredi, _was_ she? Where had she and her companion come from? Not only did she wear the oddest clothing, she was also clearly unused to horses. She didn’t even know that you were supposed to hold onto the rider behind whom you were riding pillion. Had she always travelled on foot? Or in a carriage? Or perchance on a litter?

Well, she seemed to have understood the need to hold on, at least. But did she have to press herself against Trefor’s back so shamelessly? ‘Twas embarrassing – not to mention that she was up for an unpleasant surprise, should Trefor understand her behaviour as an invitation. Was she a slattern by nature or simply mad?

And Cuhelyn had not liked the belittling looks she’d given the Lady Dylis before they would set off. The lady might not have been the prettiest woman in Gwynedd, but she was the half-sister of the Prince, for God’s sake! Born by a captured Danish noblewoman (which explained her size and her colouring), she had been acknowledged by the late Prince Gruffudd as one of his own and had acted as Owain’s chatelaine since they had both come of age. She was the most respected, most powerful woman in Aber, seconded only by the Lady Gwladus, the Prince’s own wife, and this filthy madwoman dared to look at her like _that_? People had been flogged within an inch of their lives for lesser offences!

Perhaps Goronwy had been right, after all. Perhaps she _was_ mad, plain and simple. But even so, for the time being she was considered a guest of the Prince; somebody ought to keep an eye on her. Cuhelyn spurred his horse into a fast canter to catch up with the wain and discuss the problem with the lady and his maid.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Why should we care what happens to the foolish wench?” asked Earonn with a shrug when he broached the topic to them.

“Because the Prince wants to know who she is – who both of them are – and what they’re doing here,” replied Cuhelyn. “She might be mad, but I do not believe she was a serving wench of any kind. Have you seen her hands? They’re soft and white; she has never done any hard labour, I suppose.”

“But why would she walk across foreign land in men’s clothes?” asked the Lady Dylis, who’d been listening to them thoughtfully.

Cuhelyn shrugged. “She might be the spoiled daughter of some lesser lord or wealthy merchant, running away from an unwanted marriage. Or their home might have been attacked and she fled, running for her life. In either case, she seems to have no idea how to behave to keep herself safe.”

“Still, Owain would be most displeased, should she get… _spoiled_ in any way,” commented the Lady Dylis.

“Why would Old Rhodri order Trefor, of all people, to ride with her?” wondered Earonn. “Every-one knows he can’t keep his grubby paws from any wench that comes within his reach.”

“True, but his little mare is of good disposition and has a very smooth gait,” said the Lady Dylis. “The easiest mount for someone who is unused to horses.”

“That she doubtlessly is,” agreed Cuhelyn. “I fear, though, that Trefor would see her odd behaviour as willingness to dally with him. And she could hardly make him understand that she does not.”

“Moreover if he’s full of ale,” added Earonn grimly. “Which is the reason why I shan’t accept his suit. He’s a good, hard-working man, but he loves his ale too much.”

“I’d take her into the wain, had we not Owain’s war purse and other valuables here,” said the Lady Dylis. “For all that we know of her, she might be a thief; we cannot take that risk. I fear, Cuhelyn, that I may have to ask _you_ to ride with her for the rest of the way.”

“ _Me_?” Cuhelyn protested in dismay. “Why me?”

The Lady Dylis gave him a piercing look. For all her plain looks, she was a shrewd and observant woman, and she looked through most disguises with an almost frightening ease.

“If she truly behaves like a slattern, whether because she actually _is_ one or out of sheer foolishness, we both know that you’re the only man of whom she will be safe,” she said simply.

Cuhelyn knew that the lady was right, of course. He did not have to _like_ it, though – and he certainly did not. The mere thought of the filthy and smelly clothes of that mad wench made him shudder. The idea of getting close and personal with her made him almost sick.

“The things I do to serve my Prince,” he muttered unhappily.

The Lady Dylis patted his maimed arm encouragingly. That was one of the things he loved in her: that she would touch his stump without disgust, as if it were a healthy limb. It made him feel whole again.

“I shall make sure he knows what he owes you,” she said. “See that you send Trefor to me during the first break. I’ll deal with him.”

“He’ll probably be glad to get rid of her, unless he’s _very_ drunk,” muttered Cuhelyn. “And so will I.”

But there was no help, and he knew it. He’d have to ride with the mad wench till they reached Aber. He’d probably have to burn his clothes afterwards to get rid of the stench. Still, he’d have to do this. Prince Owain needed answers, and to get them, he needed both his… _guests_ alive and unharmed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
If someone had asked Ianto afterwards how long it had taken them to reach Aber, he could not have answered. The journey seemed endless, moreover as he could not see much of the changing landscape from his litter. Plus, he was in constant pain from his lower back. Travelling across uneven ground was not a comfortable thing for someone with fractured vertebrae, not even in a litter. So, most of the time he just lay there, with his eyes tightly shut, as the sunlight only made his headaches worse.

The old monk – Brother Cadfael – did for him what he could. Ianto supposed that he had been given something to dull the pain. He wasn’t really sure what people used in the Middle Ages – poppy syrup perhaps? Whatever it was, it kept him in a somewhat hazy state, so that the pain wasn’t all too bad. He could hold out during the day with such help. The nights were worse. He could barely sleep due to the soreness and the stiffness of his limbs from the long ride in the litter. But the old monk always found ways to ease his discomfort, and so he managed.

Of Gwen he didn’t see much during the whole of the journey. He sometimes could hear her muttering and cursing from behind them, where she was watched by the servants, but they rarely let her close him, as he was travelling with the young courtier named Hywel and Brother Cadfael. From time to time he caught a glimpse of her, riding pillion behind a roughly clad, bearded groom with an unhappy face, holding on for dear life; and later behind the one-armed warrior, Cuhelyn. But they had barely spoken to each other all way long, and in his clear moments Ianto wondered whether they were kept apart, so that they wouldn’t be able to agree on a common story, should that have been their intention.

The story was something that concerned Ianto deeply. He _did_ know a lot about the history of Cardiff and its surroundings – again, due to his maternal grandparents – but not quite so far back. And having a photographic memory didn’t do much good if one had a head injury. In fact, it made everything worse. He had only tried once to activate his studies concerning local history; it had proved a _very_ bad idea. After losing what little he could eat on that day, he decided not to do it again until he would get better. _Much_ better.

What he had managed to dig out was little enough. He knew that at his period the Normans had conquered England, but large areas of Wales were still under the control of the native Welsh Princes and lords. Owain Gwynedd was one of those, perhaps the greatest of all, rivalled only the Prince of Deheubarth and the Lord of Powys. Parts of the old Welsh kingdom of Morgannwg (which was to become Glamorgan in Ianto’s own time) had fallen to the Normans who also held Cardiff Castle. Only the Lord Ifor ap Meurig, also known as Ifor Bach (meaning Ivor the Short), held land still in Shenghenydd: the upland area bounded by Brecknock to the north, between the River Taff and the Rhymney River and abutting Cefu Onn in the south.

And even this little knowledge of his was restricted to the Cardiff area, gained for the specific purpose to entertain tourists who had happened to find their way to Torchwood’s little cover shop. He knew absolutely nothing about the history of Gwynedd, and as good as nothing about the _person_ of Owain Gwynedd. No more than the generalities he had been taught in history lessons while at school, that is.

This was _not_ a very promising outlook. Ianto dreaded the moment in which they would come to a level of understanding that would enable their hosts to ask questions. Because he had no illusions about Gwen knowing any more about this particular place and area than he did. Even if she would be willing to accept their situation for what it truly was – which she clearly and empathically was _not_.

Not yet anyway, and it was doubtful that she would come to her senses any time soon.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gwen for her part was not particularly relieved by the change of riding companions. Granted, the one-armed man perhaps stank a little less than that bearded bloke Trefor, but the sight of the maimed arm filled her with revulsion. For God’s sake, why would someone refuse to wear an artificial limb in the twenty-first century? Just to show off that silver bracelet? All right, it _was_ a pretty piece of work, but not worth remaining handicapped when a mechanical arm would be so much more useful. God, these people were really loonies!

Even worse than the arm stump were the man’s eyes. Very black, very intense eyes, focussed on distance, that seemed to look right _through_ what lay before their icy glare, be it people or things, rather than _at_ them. They made Gwen feel like a dissected insect under a microscope, and she hated the feeling. 

She couldn’t understand why these re-enactment guys would need a one-armed bloke among them. He couldn’t even fight, could he? Assuming that they did those sword stunts that always seemed so fake and ridiculous on film. Yeah, perhaps they _were_ a film crew, after all, and the maimed character someone the viewers were meant to feel sorry for and identify with. Fat chance! He was way too unfriendly for _that_!

Nah, the mere idea of a one-armed warrior as a character was ridiculous. Perhaps he had bought his way into the production, just like that enormously fat woman. His clothes were much finer than those of the extras playing the common soldiers, and that silver bracelet, assuming that it _was_ silver, must have cost him a pretty penny. She had to admit that he was a good-looking bloke, too; and he must have been frigging strong. He had hauled Ianto to his feet like… like a puppet. Or a rag doll. Still, a cripple in an historic film? It was ridiculous. And that after they had gone such lengths for historic authenticity! Well apparently moneys could beat all reasonable arguments.

Somewhat later, the horse slowed down, and Gwen sighed in relief. Apparently, today they would make their night camp earlier, which was nice. Her arse (and assorted parts) were terribly sore, she hadn’t had the chance to wash properly for _days_ , and her thighs were a single, huge cramp from the desperate attempts to stay on the horse. Right now, she didn’t even mind the stench. Or the filthy blankets. She just wanted to _sleep_!

They didn’t stop entirely, however. Looking out from behind the one-armed man’s back, she got a glimpse of a high stockade not too far before them. They were currently trotting alongside it. Clearly, they had reached their destination. She just prayed it would be a proper town, not some ridiculous set again.

Soon enough, they came to a huge gate comprising of two large wooden doors. One of the heavy wings was shut, and even from here she could see a smaller door cut into it, barely big for one person to step through it. There was also a square cut in it, roughly at eye level, like a look-out or sentry might use. The other door was open and some grubby-looking men were working on tossing it even further back, so that the horses could fit through.

Gwen felt dizzy with relief. Thank God! Civilisation at last! Other people! A phone! Maybe a car! She could feel tears in her eyes at the thought she might finally be on her way home. This stupid game had gone on long enough.


	6. Chapter 5 - First Steps Towards Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The infirmary of Aber was inspired by the **[Hotel-de-Dieu in Beaune](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hospices_de_Beaune)** , the only medieval hospice that’s still more or less intact – nowadays a museum, of course. Granted the actual place is from the 15th century, but still the oldest such institution I could use as a template. Caerdydd is Cardiff, of course, and Ynys Echni is Flat Holm.
> 
>  **Re:** short medieval beds. They weren’t simply short because the people would have been so much shorter than we are (although they were, as a rule). I’m told that it was a general belief in the Middle Ages that lying flat on your back would be dangerous and unhealthy (which it is, assuming you have bronchitis or pneumonia – voice of experience speaking here), so people slept in a sitting position, propped up with pillows.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**CHAPTER FIVE – FIRST STEPS TOWARDS UNDERSTANDING**

And so they finally came, after a for Ianto indefinable length of time, to the high stockade of Owain Gwynedd’s royal seat and _tref_ in Aberwyngwessyn, along the coast road between Bangor and Llandudno. It sat in the middle of terraced green hills on one side and the salt marches on the other side; the living heart of the Prince’s power. Seeing the shimmer of their lord’s colours near, the porters and the guards at the gates had errand boys run inside and cry their coming within.

From the buildings that lined the walls of the great court of Owain’s _maenol_ , from the stables and armouries and hall, and the generous array of guest dwellings, the various members of the princely household came joyously to welcome their lord home, emerging victorious after the skirmish with the Danes, with a minimal loss of lives. And to make his visitors welcome.

Grooms ran to receive the horses; squires came with pitchers and horns. Some of them clearly remembered Brother Cadfael, for they greeted him courteously and offered to take his patient to the infirmary. Cadfael accepted the offer, mostly because he felt tired after the long ride and wanted to catch his breath ere he would change the dressing of young Iefan’s wounds.

The royal seat of Aber was a stellar example of the stability in Gwynedd, provided by the late Prince Gruffudd ap Cynan and – after his death in 1137 – by his son and successor, Owain. No foreign army had been able to cross the River Conwy into Upper Gwynedd for many years, allowing the people of the kingdom to plan for the future without fear that home and harvest would go to the flames by the hand of invaders.

Settlements like Aber had become more permanent, with buildings of stone replacing timber structures. Stone churches in particular had been built across Gwynedd, with so many limewashed that “Gwynedd was bespangled with them as is the firmament with stars”, as people liked to say. Prince Gruffudd had built stone churches at all his princely _maenol_ s, and Aber, the most important of them, was no exception.

Cadfael felt his Welsh heart swell with patriotic pride at the sight. True, the small Norman-style church could not be compared with, say, the Abbey church of Shrewsbury and its magnificence; but it was proof for a settled power – _Welsh_ power! – that had made life safe enough in this _tref_ for a permanent church. And he recognized the compact, neat, well-shaven personage coming out of said church to greet his returning lord. ‘Twas Urien, Owain’s only English-speaking clerk and chaplain in Aber, as handsomely-dressed and cheerful as ever, even though the dark thornbush of his tonsure was now generously interwoven with grey. Small wonder, though; it must have been seven years since Cadfael had last seen him: at the time when Saint Winifred’s bones had been transferred from Gwytherin to Shrewsbury.

The clerk went straight to take the Prince’s bridle, in an elegant gesture of dutiful respect, before ceding the charge to a waiting groom. As soon as Owain got out of the saddle, Urien started to talk to him in a low voice, no doubt rendering account of the events happening during his absence. Owain nodded and answered him in the same manner, and Urien’s bright, almost bird-like eyes swept over the strangers with interest – and with a look of cheerful recognition over Cadfael himself.

“Brother!” he said in delight, after Owain had left to greet his family. “’Tis good to see you again; I missed you when you first passed through Aber on your way to Bangor. It has been a long time; and now the Prince tells me you’ve got a most unusual patient with you.”

“That I have,” allowed Cadfael. “And a pretty riddle he is, for sure. If you can show me where the servants have laid him, I shall tell you the tale… as far as I know it myself. Which isn’t very far, I fear.”

Urien’s eyes brightened even more. “Follow me then, Brother,” he said, “for the infirmary is right behind the chapel, where my own rooms are, and I welcome you as my personal guest for the duration of your stay.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gwen felt her heart sink when the one-armed bloke made her slide down from the horse- and not too gently, either. This didn’t look like any proper town; this was the most convincing location – or the most detailed reconstruction of a genuine, authentic medieval village – that she had ever seen on film. Or in history books. With lots of timber buildings, a tiny stone church on the left, and people walking and running around in fancy dresses.

More lunatics. Or more extras to some very elaborate film set. Or could it perhaps be a new Big Brother special, where the candidates played medieval people and wouldn’t dare to speak proper English out of fear that they would be disqualified? That had to be it. Why else if not for a saucy prize would they endure such horrible living conditions? God, there was even an open sewer running down one side of the road; which itself was little more than beaten earth with some cobbles wedged into it.

Not to mention the horse shit all around, which some roughly-clad poor sod was busily sweeping up with a besom and shovelling into a barrow. Oh God, the stench if it! She gagged and pinched her nostrils together.

Her one-armed riding companion said something and pushed her forward, towards the great timber hall facing the gate. Gwen stumbled and cursed under her breath but thought it better to co-operate for the time being.

At the same time a dark-haired woman, wearing the richest clothes Gwen had seen so far – and by her commanding presence most likely playing the role of a queen or some sort of great lady or whatnot – came out of the hall to greet the returning men. For a female lead she wasn’t particularly impressive, Gwen found, being of middle height at best and rather stockily built. What was this with only such fat cows getting the roles in this production? Who in their right minds would watch a programme that had not a single pretty girl in it?

Still, at least the clothes of the actress were gorgeous. She wore a long undergarment of some sort, honey-gold with long, tight sleeves. Over that, she had a tunic or whatnot, in dark burgundy red, with flaring skirts and sleeves that gradually widened until they almost swept the floor. Her coiled and braided hair was gathered in a gilded net, and a golden circlet with red gemstones adorned her brow. The tunic was laced with gold ribbons on both sides and embroidered with gold on the hem and the sleeves.

The hot young bloke who’d been mingling in the crowd during the journey, moving from rider to rider and talking to them all the time, now hurried up to the hall to kiss the hand of the woman with obvious respect. Gwen snorted, looking around to find the hidden cameras, but failed. This had to be the most elaborate scheme in the history of the BBC, ever! 

Two young boys, perhaps ten and seven years old, followed the woman out, jumping down the steps with several scruffy dogs in tow, not wanting to miss any of the excitement. Gwen shrugged. It was unexpected to see kids here, but it was hardly the first time that the children of the one or other actor would get cameo roles.

After them, however, came another young bloke, one in his early twenties, walking down the steps with authority and confidence, straight to the returning warlord. He was embraced with unmistakable affection. His rich clothing and his features revealed him as the son of the man whom Ianto believed to be Owain Gwynedd. Well, perhaps he _was_ some actor, playing the Prince. But where the father was handsome, the son was stunningly beautiful: tall, fair-skinned and graceful, with curly, flaxen hair and large, flashing blue eyes. Gwen stared at him with open-mouthed awe. She wasn’t entirely sure that she wouldn’t start drooling within seconds.

A not too friendly push between her shoulder blades reminded her that she wasn’t alone; and the scowl on her dark riding companion’s face warned her that she should guard her expression better. Even though she couldn’t see what the man’s problem was. Could he be _jealous_? He couldn’t believe that he had any claim on her, just because they had ridden on the same horse all the way, could he?

A frightening thought occurred to her. What if this wasn’t a film set, after all? What if this was some weird commune where the women – at least those who had not bought themselves better positions – were considered common property?

 _Oh God, Jack_ , she thought in growing panic, _please, do something! Find me! Please, come and take me home!_

But she had the dreadful feeling that rescue wouldn’t come immediately.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Princess Gwladus ferch Llywarch, daughter of the late Prince of Arwystly and wife to Owain Gwynedd, looked at the strange wench Cuhelyn ab Einion was practically dragging before her royal presence with a displeased frown. She had been warned about the odd visitors through a message dispatched to her by way of a courier, but she had not expected _this_.

“She certainly looks odd enough,” she judged. “And you say you’ve found her like this? With only these strange clothes on her? Practically _naked_?”

“Yes, my lady,” Cuhelyn sighed. “And a rather unpleasant company she was.”

“Considering her current state that comes as no great surprise,” said the Princess. “But perhaps she’ll look better once we’ve got her cleaned up properly and provided with more… sensible clothes.”

She looked around and spotted one of the maids; a slender young woman returning from the washing spot, carrying a wicker basket full of freshly washed clothes.

“Lowri,” said the Princess, “Do you happen to have some old clothes you won’t mind parting with too much? You’re the only one of similar height and build than this poor wretch here.”

The maid nodded. “I have some spares that became too wide for me after giving birth, my lady. The dress is a bit worn and patched, though.”

“Oh, I’m certain it will serve just well, compared with what she’s wearing _now_ ,” said the Princess dryly. “I’ll see that your spares are replaced with new clothes; ones that will fit you better. Bring the old ones to the bathhouse.”

“Thank you, my lady!” the maid curtseyed as well as she could while still holding the heavy basket and hurried off, with a new spring in her step. Getting a whole set of new clothes for the ones she could no longer wear was an unexpectedly good exchange.

In the meantime Earonn, the tirewoman of the Lady Dylis, had helped her lady out of the wain and was coming up to the hall, directing the servants who carried the lady’s travelling chest. She gave their madwoman a critical look.

“She can do with a little bit of scrubbing and no mistake,” she judged. “Seemed mightily unhappy with having but a bowl to wash in the Prince’s camp, too. Perchance the luxury of the royal bathhouse will meet her lofty expectations.”

“I thought she didn’t speak our language,” said the Princess, somewhat confused.

“She doesn’t,” replied Earonn with a snort. “But she’s been wrinkling her nose about everything, all the time, like some spoiled princess. I truly marvel what she’d done before she would come here.”

“She clearly thinks herself better than other people,” added Cuhelyn in disgust. “ _And_ she has no shame. The way she’s just stared at Prince Rhun – it would have made a tavern whore blush.”

“To her defence, Prince Rhun does have that effect on people, though,” Earonn pointed out reasonably.

“Perhaps so; but other people are more discreet about it,” replied the Princess with a grim smile. “Still, we must give her the benefit of the doubt, I suppose. She’s foreign in these parts and might not know our customs; although where she might have come, having neither English nor Welsh, I cannot fathom. What of the young man travelling with her?”

“He tried to speak to us in a tongue that sounds vaguely like Welsh, as it is spoken in the south,” explained Cuhelyn, “but we could not understand him. At least we know that his name’s Iefan; while the wench is apparently called Gwen.”

“Curious,” murmured the Princess. “Both have Welsh names and yet they cannot speak Welsh; at least not a dialect known to us. Well, sooner or later we shall find a way of understanding. Let’s see to her immediate news first. Earonn, will you take her to the bath-house? She already knows you; people she hasn’t met yet might frighten her even more. See that she has a proper bath and washes her hair. Give her some of the soap and bath oils we use here. Lowri will be there with the clothes, soon.”

“Of course, my lady,” Earonn curtseyed and grabbed the arm of the madwoman, dragging her off without further ceremony.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gwen was grateful to be taken away from the scrutinizing eyes of the fake queen/lady/whatever. That woman could give her the creeps. Besides, the good-natured Earonn was a known quality. She followed her without resistance to one of the side wings, where they entered a small, almost empty room. 

Almost, but not entirely. A wooden tub stood in the middle of it, with a low bench on one side. A bar of soap, a brush, folded towels and small bottles made of cloudy glass were placed on the bench.

Gwen could barely believe her eyes. Could this be a bathroom? She hoped. She prayed.

Before she could have asked any questions, two women came in, carrying two buckets each. They poured what seemed to be cold water into the tub. Gwen shivered – they expected her to bathe in _cold_ water? Even in summer, that was a bit too much authenticity for her taste. Or were these people all some kind of health-freaks and thought they were doing her a _favour_?

Earonn must have guessed her thoughts, cos she laughed and said something that Gwen – of course – could not understand. She wished these loonies would finally give in and speak English like everyone else. Or at least proper Welsh. Her own Welsh was practically nonexistent, but at least she could _understand_ it, to a certain extent.

Fortunately, the two women returned with four more buckets, this time with steaming hot water in them. They emptied the buckets into the tub. Earonn stuck a hand into the water and nodded, clearly satisfied with the temperature. Then she picked up one of the glass bottles and carefully added a few drops of its contents to the bathing water. 

The intense scent of roses filled the small chamber. Rose oil! It was rose oil! Gwen nearly swooned with delight.

Earonn sent the other serving wenches away and gestured Gwen to take off her clothes and get into the tub. Gwen could not hurry up enough to do so. Granted, the tub was small, she could only sit in it with slightly bent knees, but the water was nice and warm and smelled of roses. She relaxed into the water, not even noticing when Earonn left the room, taking her clothes away.

After a while, she decided to give the soap a try. It, too, had the scent of roses and lathered slightly better than the “military issue” bar she had been given in camp. Even the brush was somewhat less scratchy. She started to actually enjoy herself.

“Now, this is more like it,” she murmured, “But what could the other bottles be for?”

Earonn returned in that very moment, with another bucket. She put it down near the tub, then grabbed Gwen’s head and pushed it under the water. Gwen flailed wildly, but to no use. The other woman was simply too strong. Fortunately, she released Gwen after a moment, clearly not intending to kill her in the bathtub – she had just wanted to make her hair wet. Then she poured something that smelled of camomile into her palm and rubbed it into Gwen’s hair and scalp. The liquid did not really lather, but it was a pleasant enough feeling. Finally, she rinsed Gwen’s hair with the help of the bucket she had brought. It had been a rough yet efficient process.

When they were done, she gestured Gwen to step out of the tub and wrapped her into the larger towel, using the smaller one to dry her hair, as much as it was possible. Then she had Gwen sit on the bench and started to comb out and braid her hair in the local fashion. Gwen _hated_ braids, but found it better not to argue just yet.

While Earonn was still busy with her hair, the young woman from earlier, the one with the basketful of washing, came in. She brought some clothes and laid them out on the bench. Gwen’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She was supposed to wear _that_?

The clothes, clearly meant for someone from the lower class, consisted of a drab brown dress made of coarse linen, with tapered sleeves and full skirts; an undershift of some undyed, cheesecloth-like fabric, a pair of baggy drawers and something akin to stockings, also made of linen and of the same colour as the dress. They looked horrible, simply horrible! But she had no other chance than to put them on, considering that her own clothes had been taken away and she might never get them back.

The mere thought of _that_ made her wish to kill someone.

Earonn helped her to get dressed, which proved to be quite the undertaking. The neckline of the undershift was shaped to mach the dress, but with a smaller opening, so that it could be seen beneath the dress. It was also fitted in the breast, making it a bit uncomfortable without the help of a bra, which seemed to be an unknown piece of clothing here; then it flared outward, ending at the ankle, so that it could fit under the dress.

“Terrific!” Gwen muttered. “Two layers of _long_ skirts. As if the stupid drawers would not make my hips look twice as wide as they actually are. I look like a tramp!”

The worst part were the stockings. They didn’t cover her feet, fitting close to the ankle, and reached just over the knee, where they were secured by rolling them down and gartering them above the knee. The shoes going with them weren’t so much shoes as rather ankle-high boots made of soft leather, with laces that wound round the ankle. A thicker piece of leather was sewn to the sole, but even so, she was going to feel every pebble, every little lump of soil though them. 

She thought mournfully at her nice, sturdy, trendy black leather boots. And her socks. And her underwear. But it seemed that she would have to wear this ugly, rustic stuff until she could get away from this madhouse.

Dressed up like some nameless extra for one of those ridiculous mantle-and-dagger films, she followed the other woman to the small guest rooms lined up alongside the wall of the great court. Earonn opened one of the doors and gestured for her to enter. It was a small, relatively dark chamber, with a bed and a small table as the only furniture, aside from a chest in the corner, meant for any clothes she might have. Earonn pointed at Gwen, then made a sweeping gesture, then pointed at Gwen again and said something unintelligible before leaving.

The meaning was clear enough, though. For the duration of her stay, this dank little hole would be Gwen’s room. It was horribly primitive, like everything else around here. But at least it belonged to her alone, and the door had a latch from the inside, so she could bolt it. She did so; then she collapsed on the bed and started sobbing uncontrollably.

Bastards! Who gave them the right to force her to participate in their mad games? She was _so_ going to kill someone! She was Torchwood, not some silly little homemaker who would believe their insane stories, they couldn’t do this to her!

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Ianto came to again in a relatively large hall that had a row of canopied beds on both sides, with four beds in each row. He had clearly missed their arrival at Aber, and someone must have washed him while he had slept, cos he felt refreshed and more or less rested. The bed was way too short for him, of course, so they had brought him into a semi-sitting position, but even so, his feet were dangling in the air from the edge of the bed. 

He was clad in some sort of long, white linen undertunic that reached to the middle of his calves and was a bit short in the sleeve, but that wasn’t really surprising. He was a tall guy, even in twenty-first century terms; the undertunic had probably been made for someone tall for a medieval Welshman but still shorter than he was. He felt a little ridiculous, like in his childhood when he had to wear outgrown clothes, but at least the pain in his lower back had receded a bit.

Looking around, he spotted the old monk, Brother Cadfael, sitting in a chair at his bedside. A hand-copied, leather-bound book, presumably a breviary, lay open on his knees and he was whispering the words of some prayer under his breath. Ianto strained his ears, trying to recognize the language, and after a moment or so, he succeeded. It was Latin – understandably enough, given the era and the good brother probably being a choir monk. The pronunciation differed a bit from what Ianto had learned in secondary school, little as it had been, but still understandable enough. Dead languages changed remarkably little during the centuries. Considerably less than living ones.

Which meant… Ianto stiffened in his undersized sickbed, excitement rising in him. This meant that if he could dig up his very limited Latin, he might be able to come to at least partial understanding – if only with the members of the clergy. Although members of the royal family ought to have been taught the _lingua franca_ of the era as well. Granted, the Latin Ianto had been taught had not been aimed for the use in the daily matters, but it would be a start. He did not doubt that – given enough time – he would come to understand the local dialect as well, but right now, the most urgent issue was to establish a dialogue, no matter how primitive it might be,

He waited with forced patience until the old monk would finish his prayers; then he cleared his throat and tried to put together a semi-coherent sentence in Latin.

“Brother Cadfael… I greet you… my gratitude for help…”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“He speaks _Latin_?” Owain Gwynedd was completely flabbergasted by that piece of news – not that anyone could have blamed him for that.

Cadfael shrugged. “Saying that he _speaks_ it would be a little exaggerated, my lord. He can cobble together a few short, clumsy sentences at best, and he can quote some of the classics, rather than speak of daily matters. His pronunciation is odd, too; it takes some getting used to it. But he can make himself understood, with some effort.”

“Was he able to tell you anything about himself?” asked Hywel, his curiosity clearly piqued. 

Cadfael shook his head. “Not much. His vocabulary is limited at best. He did mention Caerdydd, though, and Ynys Echni, and a castle he did not name. So I suppose he must be working as a clerk for a lord of one of those places. When he tried to speak to us before, his language did remind me of the southern dialect – which makes sense now.”

“’Tis still strange that he would not understand us; or we him,” said the Prince thoughtfully. “Or that he would speak neither English, nor French. Caerdydd Castle s being held by the Earl of Gloucester right now; or rather by his heir, William FitzRobert. If our young man works for him, how can he not understand the languages spoken in FitzRobert’s court?”

“Perhaps he works for Ifor ap Meurig, the Lord of Senghenydd,” suggested Hywel. “Or for Morgan ab Owain, the Lord of Caerleon and Gwynllwg.”

“Which still won’t explain why he doesn’t speak proper Welsh,” Owain pointed out. “At least not any of the dialects we would understand.”

“No, it does not,” agreed Cadfael. “It’s my hope, though, that with the help of his limited Latin he’ll learn our dialect quickly. He seems to have a good head on his shoulders. I’m more concerned about the company he keeps. That woman seems to be of a foul disposition. What are you planning to do with her, my lord?”

“I’ve left that in the capable hands of my wife,” replied Owain with a grin. “She has a tight hold on her own household; she’ll find a place for the wench. Right now, she had her put in one of the guest rooms and watched from the distance. We’ll see what use she can be later.”

“Yes, she ought to be watched, I fear,” said Cadfael. “Something isn’t quite right about her. I cannot say what it is, but unless she’s truly mad, it has to be something sinister. I’d be careful around her if I were you.”

“We _are_ careful,” replied Owain. “And I’m glad that you’ve reached at least a limited understanding with young Iefan. I have high hopes that you’ll make considerable headway in the near future.”

“Not I,” Cadfael smiled, a bit regretfully. “I’m afraid ‘tis time for me to return home. Father Abbot has been generous with me as it is; but now my patient is on the mend, and Urien will be able to talk to him. He has more Latin than I have, coming late to the cloister. And he’s a cheerful person; they’ll go along well enough, I deem. I’ve discussed Iefan’s treatment with your leech, my lord. He and Mistress Siân between them will treat the lad properly.”

“How long ‘til Iefan will be healed?” asked Owain.

Cadfael shrugged. “I expect him to be on his feet within a day or two. But he’ll have to be very careful with his back for a while yet. No heavy labour for at least two or three weeks, especially no heavy lifting. But if he’s indeed a scribe or a clerk of some sort, he’ll be able to write or copy letters for you soon enough.”

Owain nodded in understanding. “We shall see that he finds his place within the household, ‘til we can send him – both of them – home. I thank you, Brother, for everything that you’ve done for him; for all of us. As much as I’m loath to see you leave, we all understand that your duties lie elsewhere. If there’s anything I can do to reward you, name it and you shall have it.”

“Seeing wounds heal and lives saved is my reward,” answered Cadfael. “I’ve but a small request: should you ever learn the tale behind all this, I’d love to hear that tale.”

“You will,” Owain promised. “That’s the least I can do. Godspeed, brother; I hope we’ll see each other yet.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And thus Brother Cadfael dutifully prepared himself for the long way home, leaving behind an unsolved mystery. That irked him very much, but it could not be helped. He was no longer his own master, if ever he had been, and his vow of obedience forced him to return to Shrewsbury as soon as he was no longer needed.

Not that he’d mind much. Even though the _vagus_ , the urge to travel and see new things and new places still overcame him from time to time, generally he was content with the settled life in cloister that he had chosen for the autumn of his life almost two decades earlier. In truth, he positively longed for his small hut in the herb garden; longed to pick up his duties again.

He parted with his young patient amiably. Iefan seemed to understand that he had to go and did not try to change his mind. Seeing into those guarded blue eyes for a last time, Cadfael could feel some very old pain in the young man; as if Iefan had gone through a lot and grown used to lose people who meant a great deal to him.

“Take good care of him for me,” asked Cadfael the Prince’s head clerk. “He’ll need a friend in this place that is foreign for him. And once you’ve come to understand each other better, tell him this: should Owain be unable to send him home, he can always seek me out in Shrewsbury if he does not want to stay here.”

“Why shouldn’t he be able to go home?” said Urien, a little bewildered. “Caerdydd isn’t _that_ far from here; nor is Ynys Echni, even though they’re under Norman rule. Once he’s grown strong enough, he’ll be able to make the journey without much difficulty. Owain won’t refuse him the loan of a horse, for sure.”

“Of course not,” said Cadfael in agreement. “For some reason, though, I don’t believe it would be that simple.”

“What do you mean?” Urien frowned.

“I’m not sure,” replied Cadfael thoughtfully. “I just have the feeling that there’s more about young Master Iefan than what the naked eye can see. But I must be off; my work at home is waiting. Send me word, should you learn anything, will you?”

Urien promised to do so, and Cadfael rode off, accompanied by two young men of Owain’s own _teulu_ who were to see him safely to the English border.


	7. Chapter - Settling Down in the Middle Ages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medieval sanitary facilities are discussed here - again - so you might need a strong stomach. Lavatories as the ones described here – only even less private ones – can be seen in the water castle of Chillon. Only that they open directly into Lake Geneva, not into a sewer. 
> 
> The colours of the fabrics in the sewing room are from the Revival Clothing website, where you can check out 12th century fashion, colour and fabrics. It was a fascinating and bright period, fashion-wise.
> 
> Owain Gwynedd’s eldest daughter was probably Gwenllian. But as that particular name was so popular in the royal family that it could lead to misunderstandings, I always use Marared for this particular role.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER SIX – SETTLING DOWN IN THE MIDDLE AGES**

Just as Brother Cadfael had foretold, Ianto was back on his feet on the third day after their arrival in Aber. Granted, he had to move around very carefully, in order to mind his bruised ribs and spinal column – the fractured vertebrae in his lower back sent shooting pain through his entire body at every bad move – and his legs started shaking whenever he stood in one place at any length of time. But he was given a cane to support him while walking, and Master Hafin, the Prince’s own physician, assured him (via Urien) that things will get better, given enough time. 

He just needed to be patient.

He also needed to be useful, more out of personal motivation than because his generous hosts would expect it from him, and he managed to make Urien understand that. Therefore he was given documents to copy, and after a few aborted efforts he figured out how to use the quill properly and how to adapt his all too modern handwriting to the script required by this early century. Urien was pleased with the results, and thus Ianto spent a few hours each day in the sacristy, which also served as the chaplain’s office, to copy out old documents that needed to be replaced, to write letters, which Urien dictated him in Latin, meant for the Bishop of St. Asaph, and the likes.

The fact that he made himself useful earned him a place at the Prince’s table. Not among the court nobles, of course, but he didn’t have such lofty ambitions anyway. He was content to sit among the clerks and the lead servants of the princely household – which meant one of the better places, with Urien himself and with the respectable members of the Prince’s _teulu_ , such as the one-armed Cuhelyn – listening to their talk and trying to recognize any familiar-sounding words. Now that he knew they were actually speaking Welsh, only an ancient version of the northern dialect, it was easier for him to understand a few snatches.

Cuhelyn and Urien between them did their best to help him learn their language. Especially Cuhelyn was very patient, talking to him slowly and using the simplest words and lots of gestures and exaggerated facial expressions to make him understand the meaning of the spoken words. It was quite funny, really; better than an old-fashioned cinema showing slapstick comedies.

While he was struggling forward to a better understanding, however, he didn’t forget what _that_ would mean, once he had reached his goal. So he was working on a believable story in his head at the same time; on a story he could present the Prince without ending up executed for practicing witchcraft… or in the local version of the madhouse, assuming the people here had one. It was a delicate walk on the razor’s edge; to stay as close to the truth as possible (which always made it easier to lie and to prevent contradictions within the story) and yet translate everything into terms that people of the twelfth century would be able to understand.

It also needed to be a simple enough story that Gwen, who was born as a blabbermouth, wouldn’t ruin completely in the moment she’d learned enough from the local dialect to make herself understood. Which was not an easy task to manage, considering what an airhead she could be sometimes. Also, he realized that it wouldn’t be easy for him to synchronize the story with Gwen, as he practically hadn’t seen her since they had reached Aber. The household of Prince and Princess had a separate life; even at the tables in the Great Hall, men and women sat among themselves. The family of the Prince was the only exception.

He knew he’d have to find a way to speak with Gwen, and soon. As soon as they’d learned enough from this time’s language, they _would_ be questioned; and they needed to have the same tale ready. He did have the suspicion that their hosts were keeping them separated for just that reason: to prevent them from synchronizing their stories. Medieval folk or not, these people were not stupid. If bad came to worse, Gwen’s big mouth could get them both killed. 

He only hoped he’d find the chance to talk to her before _that_ happened. And that she’d actually _listen_ , for a change.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gwen, in the meantime, was _not_ having a good time. _Miserable_ would have been the best word to describe her state. Granted, the small guest chamber assigned to her did give her _some_ privacy at least, but it was horribly primitive – like some prison cell. It didn’t even have a proper wardrobe; she had to put her clothes into that stuffy, iron-bound chest in the corner.

She did get her own clothes back after two days, cleaned even, as far as these maniacs could clean them with their ‘genuine medieval’ methods; but she was afraid to put them on again. She couldn’t know how the bonkers would react to her disturbing their ‘medieval’ landscape. It was better to play along for a while; until she found out where the cars were hidden – cos surely they hadn’t come on horseback half across the country? 

Or the public phones. 

Or any other means of escape.

Of course, while the decision was a reasonable one in theory, carrying it out was an entirely different cup of tea.

Life on the set/medieval reality show was not an easy one. Living conditions in town were somewhat better than they had been in that so-called military camp, but still primitive enough to turn her stomach upside down. The lavatories, for example, situated in their own small timber building, offered slightly more comfort than the hole in the earth, but were still really bad; and, despite being called privies, they offered very little actual privacy. Basically, they consisted of a long, low stone bench, with wooden seats over each hole, which opened directly into a sewer running below. The individual seats were separated by wooden screens and each cubicle had its own entrance, but one could still hear – and _smell_ \- anyone who was using the facilities at the same time; and if one happened to sit on the downstream end, the waste products of all other… erm… _customers_ were running below one’s seat.

The mere thought made Gwen want to throw up. Actually, she _did_ throw up the first time she used the privy, but it only meant that she had to clean up after herself.

The fact that they never offered her a bath after the first day only made things worse. After all, washing herself in a bowl could only do so much for hygienics, and bathing in a stream was _not_ her idea of creature comfort, no matter how much the locals seemed to enjoy it. Not even in summer. She dreaded the coming of cold weather well in advance. She _needed_ to get out of here, as soon as possible. She was _so_ not going through any phase of her pregnancy in a fake medieval village, filmed by hidden cameras!

The worst part was that these loonies clearly expected her to indulge in their silly little medieval fantasies and did their best to find her a place where she could be useful. There could be no doubt that she was no longer considered a guest; if she wanted to eat, she had to contribute. Not that the food would have been all that appealing, but she had to eat _something_ , or else she would have lost her strength and thus her every chance to escape.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Earonn seemed to have been chosen as her guide – or her watchdog, depending on your point of view – as she came every morning (and at an ungodly early time, too!) to whisk her away to the one or other workplace to test her skills. Which were, sadly, at large nonexistent for this kind of life.

On the very first day after their arrival, she was taken to the sewing room. It was a relatively small room within the long timber hall that served as the house of the chief honcho/prince/whatever; its windows opening to the south-east, so that it would get as much sunlight as possible, which was necessary for such work that required good eyesight. Stitching certainly did, as she would discover later.

As she entered, she could see that it was a shared workroom, with a long, large table in the centre, and the walls were lined with bolts of fabric. Most of it was the sturdy, undyed linen of which the undershifts were made, or simple brown or black homespun wool. But there were other bolts in rich, jewel-like colours: periwinkle blue, bright forest green, brick red, golden brown, olive green, dark brown, oatmeal, sage and soft gold. All plain colours, though; there were no patterned materials.

There was a large sideboard to the right of the door, with countless small drawers. Some of them were open, revealing buttons of various sizes and colours, made of wood, metal or bone, threads, buckles, ribbons and strings. Several pairs of scissors – each of the size of a garden shear – lay on the central table, which had probably been designed for the cutting of fabric and for stitching together larger pieces of clothing.

 _Ianto would just love this place_ , Gwen thought, with just a bit of venom. _He was always so bloody proud of his Tad having been a master tailor_.

Half a dozen women were already in the room, all seated on stools or at tables, sewing. One of them was embroidering the sleeve of a deep burgundy red overtunic of raw silk with what seemed like gold thread; it was clearly meant for one of the important blokes. The embroideress, too, must have been someone above the common crowd, as she was wearing very fine clothes indeed: a dark green, pendant-sleeved gown, also of raw silk, over a linen undertunic, girdled by a thin belt with golden rosette mount in golden brow, the wide sleeves pinned back with golden fibulas to her shoulders, so that they would not hinder her in her work.

She was also the first truly beautiful woman Gwen had seen among these maniacs so far: in her mid-twenties perhaps, tall and graceful of shape, with a pale, oval face that seemed almost translucent in the frame of her glossy, blue-black hair, coiled in a braid as thick as her wrist and gathered in a gilded net. Her eyes, large and bright under winged black brows, were so dark that her irises seemed almost purple, but the high cheekbones, a firm chin and a resolute mouth spoke of a strong personality. 

That she wasn’t bare-headed like the rest of the seamstresses, even though her headdress consisted of the gilded net only, also spoke of importance. Despite the difference in colouring, she vaguely reminded Gwen of Martha Jones. At least she made her feel hopelessly inferior, just as Martha always did. She decided that she didn’t like the bint at all, no matter who she was.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Princess Marared ferch Owain, eldest daughter of the Prince of Gwynedd, watched the foreign woman from under half-lowered lashes with detached interest, while stitching away on the new festive tunic of her half-brother, Prince Rhun. She was a strange one, this Gwen person, for certain. Earonn and the other servants had given the ladies of the court chapter and verse about her outrageous behaviour, but the Princess had wanted to see it with her own eyes.

Sure enough, she looked around in the sewing room as if she had never seen a place like this before. She was positively gawking at the two seamstresses who were sewing together the pieces of Lady Dylis’ new bliaut, as if she would be staring into the face of the worst horror one could imagine. What was she expecting, that the pieces would grow together on their own? Although, considering the strange garb she had been wearing upon her arrival, not even _that_ would be surprising, Marared decided.

Which reminded her of another needful thing: the wench needed at least another set of clothes. She could not be allowed to walk around in men’s garb; less so of such shameless cut that made her seem almost naked. Neither could they, by the looks of her, expect her to sew herself new, more proper clothes.

Fortunately, Lady Dylis always had some ready-made shifts and kirtles for the servants that only needed the finishing touches.

“Blodwen, get me two of the pre-made kirtles,” Marared ordered, “And a couple of undershirts, too. We need to fit some clothes for her.”

“Which colour?” Blodwen, a plain-looking, middle-aged woman – the best seamstress of the royal court – asked, rising from her stool already.

“Black and light blue will do,” Marared replied. “I doubt that she’d be anything but common stock, so no need to waste finer materials on her. And two of the undershifts should be made of sturdy linen, so that she can wear them for working in the gardens or at the washing spot. Bring some chausses and drawers, too; and we’ll have to get at least another pair of shoes from the cobblers,” she added, looking at Earonn, who nodded in understanding.

Blodwen went to the far end of the workroom, from where a little store room opened, and fetched the requested pieces of clothing. Then she held out the kirtles and undershifts, one by one, to see whether they would fit the foreign wench who was still staring at them with impossibly wide, bulging eyes.

“They should fit,” she judged, “although perhaps the skirts will be a tad too long. We should make her try them on.”

It took a great deal of pantomime until their… _guest_ finally understood what was expected from her, making Marared wonder whether she was a bit slow-witted or just belligerent by nature. But in the end, she did put on the unfinished clothes in the store room and came back, hitching her skirts so she did not tread on them. Both the undershifts and kirtles fit well enough, but – just as Blodwen had predicted – they were too long.

“We need to shorten the skirts indeed,” Marared said, gesturing the Gwen to stand on one of the empty stools.

Misunderstanding the gesture, she sat down promptly. The seamstresses in the workroom burst out in laughter, earning an angry scowl and a muttered oath from her, which they fortunately did not understand. She really did have unpleasant manners. Not even tavern wenches would behave like that in the face of royalty – or anywhere else, for that matter.

Earonn shook her head in exasperation and dragged the foolish woman onto her feet again. Then she climbed onto the stool herself, to show what they wanted. Now realizing what the gesture had meant, Gwen followed suit, albeit scowling and sulking when she lost her balance and needed to be supported – which led to suppressed giggles all around. Even Blodwen had a hard time to hide her grin when she and Earonn folded the bottom of kirtle and shift at the right length, to the ankle bone, and she quickly made a few stitches at the spot to keep the folded material in place and so mark the length. They then repeated the procedure with the rest of the clothes, until they were all properly marked. When everything was done, Earonn pushed Gwen into the store room again to get dressed.

“Shall we leave it to her to finish the clothes for herself?” Blodwen asked.

Marared shook her head. “Not if we’ll have to redo the stitching afterwards. I shall keep her here today, to see what she knows of needlework. Lowri is coming in to finish her new kirtle, the one she got in exchange for what this… for what _Gwen_ is now wearing. She can do all the kirtles, and if Gwen shows any skills, I might allow her to finish the undershifts.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gwen was fairly shocked when she realized that they expected her to do the hand-stitching thing. The mere thought of hand-stitching all these clothes boggled her mind. Did these poor cows slave over the whole costume department of this stupid show? It was beyond imagination. There was not enough money on planet Earth that she would do _that_. 

Especially as she hadn’t even sewn back a torn button before.

Only that she had no other choice. _When in Rome_ … she muttered, accepting the small wicker basket with sewing utensils that was pushed into her hands. She examined her fingernails woefully. Some of them were already broken, and she didn’t doubt that more would meet the same face when she was to deal with such heavy fabrics.

The needles were made of bone and seemed surprisingly fine and delicate, though. It required some well-measured strength to push them through two layers of the coarse linen the undershifts had been made of. 

Which meant that she promptly broke the one given her when she tried.

The beautiful woman doing the embroidery rolled her eyes briefly, as if praying for patience, and said something to the woman who had taken Gwen’s measures. The woman fetched a piece of thin wool, got another needle and some thread, sat down with Gwen at one of the tables and started teaching her how to sew. She simply took the undershift that needed to be shortened, and while working on it, showed Gwen what to do. 

Gwen tried her best to copy the stitch, her brow furrowing in concentration. She didn’t want to look totally incompetent in the eyes of these lunatics.

After a few times the woman, whom the others called Blodwen, let her get on with it, indicating she should finish an entire row of stitches. Then she inspected her work. She clearly wasn’t impressed at all. She showed Gwen her own work and laid the two side by side, so that Gwen could see the difference – which was glaringly obvious, to say the least. Gwen scowled.

“Well, I haven’t done this all my life, you know,” she snapped at the woman who could have been her mother age-wise.

Blodwen seemed even less impressed by her manners – or rather the lack thereof. She simply indicated for her to pick up the piece of wool and keep trying.

They stayed at it all morning.

Around midday Gwen thought her eyes were swimming from staring at the close stitching, and her back was killing her. The results were still rubbish, of course, even though some of her stitches _did_ seem more even and a little straighter. It would be a long way to go until she’d be able to produce something even remotely acceptable – not that she intended to stay here long enough for _that_.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
If she thought she would have her peace in the afternoon, she was sorely disappointed. After the midday meal – which was shockingly frugal, consisting of some thick broth and a piece of bread, eaten in the kitchens among what must have been the serving wenches – Earonn whisked her away again. This time they left the walled court and went down to a little stream that ran within the settlement for a while before disappearing underground well outside the walls and probably continuing on towards the sea.

At one point, a thatched roof bridged the stream – which was quite wide and shallow there – built on wooden pillars that were ranged on either side of the bank. Several large boulders stood out clearly from the water, but they were not flat enough to serve as stepping stones, so Gwen couldn’t even guess what purpose they might have. Three wide, flat steps were cut and flagged into both banks, so that one could reach the water easily. Some of the flags, strangely enough, were angled so that they would lean _into_ the water. 

It was all very strange, and Gwen didn’t have the faintest idea what the hell this place was supposed to be. Not until she spotted the girl whose spare clothes she was currently wearing, that is. Although calling her a _girl_ would have been probably false, she could see that now. While she did have a round, cat-like face, framed by thick black hair, looking at her closer one could see that she must have been in her late twenties, at the very least. Still younger than Gwen, perhaps, but definitely not a child. She wasn’t as ugly and plain-looking like the majority of the women here, but she must have lost quite some weight recently, as her clothes were hanging on her as if made for a much bigger person.

She greeted Earonn cheerfully enough and gestured towards the roof, under which several large wicker baskets stood, heaped with obviously dirty clothes, bed linens, towels and the likes. Pennies dropping rapidly, Gwen felt an equal measure of panic and rightful indignation rise in her.

A washing well! Oh God, this was a bloody washing well, and they obviously expected her to help them wash all those clothes! _By hand_!

“You have to be kidding me!” she screamed at the two women who stared at her in shocked surprise. “You wanna me to wash someone else’s bloody clothes in a sodding _river_? In the twenty-first century? Oh, c’mon, people, historic authenticity is fine, but this is just bloody ridiculous!”

Earonn was the first to recover from her shock. She gave Gwen a look of extreme annoyance, then she deliberately turned her back, said something to the other woman, calling her Lowri, and simply ignored Gwen for the rest of the afternoon. The two of them took off their shoes, picked up a wicker basket each and waded into the shallow water. There they tied a knot in their skirts well above the knee, selected the first random pieces of washing and went to work.

And bloody hard work it was, too, by the sight of it!

First they soaked the clothes thoroughly in the water, swilling them around, and then they flung them – hard! – against a boulder or a flag. Then they rinsed them again, flung them against the stone, rinsed, flung, rinsed, flung. It went on like this until they judged the piece clean enough, at which time they folded it and laid it into the emptied basket. And continued with the next piece.

One of the heaped baskets was left under the roof, and Gwen realized with a sinking heart that it was _her_ share of the work that no-one was going to do for her. If she didn’t start with it immediately, she’d be at it all night. So she dragged the basket to the bank, took off her shoes and descended the steps with a randomly chosen piece of clothing – it happened to be a tunic of some indefinite colour (or just really, _really_ filthy) – and knelt down on the last step to soak it properly.

The thing must have been made of wool, as it soaked up at least a ton of water and became accordingly heavy. She could barely lift it enough to beat it against the flag that leant into the water. It certainly wasn’t enough to get it clean without the help of any soap or washing powder or whatnot. How did Earonn and Lowri manage to swing such leaden weights high enough to bang them against the stone with such force? And in such cold water, too? Despite the warm summer afternoon, the stream felt positively icy. Cold enough for her fingers to get numb.

The two stupid gits were still studiously ignoring her. Gwen gritted her teeth, rolled the sleeves of her undershift up beyond her elbow and went on. She would show them that Gwen Cooper was _not_ that easily beaten!

Unfortunately, stubborn determination alone could not make up for the complete lack of skills and experience. She whacked the sodden tunic against the flag with all her might until her arms started aching and her fingers were so cold from the water that they hurt, but it still only seemed moderately cleaner than before. She collapsed on the step and sobbed uncontrollably, while Lowri and Earonn went on with their own work vigorously. They had nearly filled their own baskets with clean clothes and didn’t even seem tired. Gwen was bathed in sweat and breathing itself hurt like a bitch.

She decided that enough was enough, and if the owner of the tunic didn’t find it properly clean, he could come down here and wash it again. She clambered to her feet and haphazardly folded the thing, although she felt like her arms were about to fall off, they hurt so much. She placed the wet garment in the basket and looked around for the next piece, perhaps something made of a less water absorbent material… only that she found nothing. Lowri and Earonn had clearly done _her_ share of the washing, too, while she was struggling with that single tunic.

She knew she should probably be grateful, but the only thing she could feel was anger. And humiliation. If they thought they could make fun of her, they had another thing coming!

They were still cheerfully ignoring her, busily wringing out the clothes, with the simple yet effective method of grabbing each piece on both ends and twisting it as hard as they could – and considering the strength they had displayed so far, that was saying a lot. One would have thought that hand-stitched clothes would be torn to pieces by such rough treatment but nothing like that happened. The seamstresses must have done a good job on them. Then the two women put the re-folded garments into the baskets again, picked up one basket each and headed back to the main house, without as much as a backward glance at Gwen.

Gwen was drowning in misery. She was staggering under the weight of her near-empty basket, with only the dripping woollen tunic in it; _and_ she had the feeling that everyone was giggling over her, whispering mean things to each other. Plus, she must have looked like a scarecrow, with her clothes sweaty and sodding wet, her hair having come loose and hanging into her face. She glared at the beaten dirt path before her, refusing to look at anyone, as she stumbled back towards the house.

Suddenly someone snatched the basket from her nerveless hands. A male voice said something that sounded like “Let me help you”, and a sinewy arm caught her around the waist to support her. She glanced up thankfully – right into the grinning, bearded face of Trefor the groom, with whom she had ridden the first leg of their journey from the battle site to here.

Right; she should have recognized the stench. But she was too drained to even notice the smell properly. She leaned against him and let him lead her back to the outbuildings behind the house where, as she would learn later, the washed clothes would be hanged up and aired.

For the first time since they had landed here, she missed Rhys terribly.


	8. Chapter 7 - Courtly Affairs in Aber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “That thing with her tongue” that Gwen can apparently do – and I refuse to even guess _what_ that is – is actually a canonically documented thing. See Owen’s thoughts in “Greeks Bearing Gifts”. 
> 
> Also, my apologies for the information dump of courtly politics – at this point, it was inevitable, I’m afraid. This chapter contains spoilers for the Cadfael novels “Dead Man’s Ransom” and “The Summer of the Danes”, respectively.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER SEVEN – COURTLY AFFAIRS IN ABER**

The following weeks did not seem to get any easier on Gwen – less so as there seemed to be no secrets to discover, no cars hidden away anywhere, no real toilets or concealed phones, no secret cellars under trap doors that would have led out of this madhouse. Slowly, very slowly it began to dawn on her that Ianto actually _might_ have been right. That the bloody Rift _might_ have dropped them off nine hundred years in the past. That – unless Jack found some miraculous way to come and fetch them – they might spend the rest of their lives in this mudhole.

When she tried to face this possibility for the first time, she suffered a nervous breakdown, weeping and screaming like a madwoman (and she could see that the locals considered her one, too, but what did they know, stupid Neanderthals that they were?), unable to get a grip, cos honestly, this was just too much to bear. It had been horrible enough when she still believed being trapped in some sort of insane role-playing community or whatnot. But spending a _life_ like this? It was unimaginable.

The only good thing that came out of he fit was that they actually let Ianto visit her. Not that she’d have missed the bloody teaboy, but it was a relief to be able to speak with _someone_. Even if it was only Ianto.

To his credit, Ianto managed to refrain from the obvious _I told you so_. He also seemed to have gone native within those few weeks and Gwen admitted, albeit reluctantly, that the medieval look was a good one on him. Especially the brick red overtunic, trimmed with the same brown stuff his hood was made of, seemed to be really his colour. He’d grown out his hair just a little, so that it curled back on the nape of his neck, and he was wearing a short, neatly-trimmed beard now. Gwen was almost glad Jack couldn’t see him like this.

But he also used a cane to walk and seemed to be in some pain, even though he tried to hide it behind that smooth butler’s mask of his. Apparently, twelfth century medicine wasn’t what it was said to be. All of a sudden, Gwen became afraid that he might not last long, after all. She never really liked Ianto, his smooth manners and quiet snark, and the way he had maneuvered himself into Jack’s bed just cos’ Jack was too much of a gentleman to have anything with a married woman, and she was sure that Ianto hated her guts, knowing that Jack was only shagging him because he considered _her_ taboo. Still, having a familiar face around, someone she could actually _talk_ to was a godsend.

Besides, Ianto might be able to kiss up to the chief honcho of this place well enough to secure them both a more comfortable status. Gwen had noticed that people were already treating him with something akin to respect, although how he had managed to bewitch them in such a short time – and that without even serving them coffee! – was beyond her. He seemed awfully chummy with both that finely-dressed little priest (at least she _thought_ it was a priest; he was tonsured, after all), and the sour-mannered, one-armed warrior that had found them in the first place.

Gwen wondered whether he had already sold his arse to the highest bidder. She wouldn’t be surprised. Ianto was a man-slut, after all; hadn’t he put it up for Jack only a month or two after his precious cyber-girlfriend had been executed? Well, it didn’t really matter. He was here, and he was the only person she could really count on. If he’d whored himself out for favours, then he could make some efforts to get _her_ a few favours as well. Of course, _that_ might need a bit of persuading, so Gwen decided to be extra nice to him – for the time being anyway.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Getting leave to meet Gwen had _not_ been easy – for reasons Ianto had suspected from the beginning – but he’d worked towards this goal diligently. He’d been seriously worried about her, and he didn’t want her to come to any real harm, even though he believed that being taken down a peg or two would be beneficial for her. Still, Jack liked her, and Rhys loved her with all his heart, and Ianto wanted to keep her as safe as he could… for their sake.

As he was getting better and better at understanding the local dialect, gossip kept reaching him. She’d already managed to make herself fairly unpopular, it seemed, medieval society not having the modern tolerance and understanding for hissy fits and temper tantrums. Especially not from someone not considered above the serving wenches – only without the skills even the lowliest, slowest-witted serving wench would have learned at half her age.

He also realized with a shock that she was already seen as a slattern. Obviously, she’d begun to shag Trefor, one of the grooms, within a mere few days after their arrival, and the man had been heard bragging about it in the alehouse repeatedly.

“I tell you, she has no shame,” he would say, according to Cuhelyn, who’d heard it from Merfyn, the owner of the alehouse himself. “And, by the beard of Bran the Blessed, she’s something that would make your bones melt right in your body! The things she can do with her tongue… and the way her eyes bulge when you ride her, it can make a man’s blood boil hot!”

The mere fact that Gwen would have no qualms starting an affair with one of the locals didn’t surprise Ianto very much. After all, she’d shagged Owen only a week or two after hiring on to work for Torchwood; and she’d have merrily shagged Jack, too, behind the back of that poor, long-suffering husband of hers. Hell, she’d have given in to John Hart even, had the rogue Time Agent not been more interested in killing her than in shagging her. But that kind of behaviour would be heavily frowned upon in _this_ time – unless she wanted to become a tavern whore, and Ianto didn’t wish that upon her; if for no other reason than for Rhys’ sake who deserved better.

There was still a slim chance that they might get home, eventually, and he wanted to present Rhys a largely undamaged wife.

 _How_ he was going to breach the sensitive topic to her was another matter entirely. Subtlety had never worked with Gwen, and Ianto himself was too well-bred to tell a woman bluntly to “please, don’t whore yourself out, it will earn you no real favours here, and you’ve got a husband to consider”. It wasn’t an easy problem to solve, especially as listening to reason had never been her forte. Not in all the time they had worked together.

So Ianto simply sat with her for a while, listening to her pathetic sobbing and her complaints and rants, made insubstantial, comforting noises and tried to get some basic facts through that thick skull of hers, assuming that her mind wasn’t too muddled with self-pity to understand _why_ those facts would be of vital importance.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Having met Ianto after all those lonely weeks had been a relief. By the time he was called away – he’d told her that he worked as some kind of copyist for the Prince’s chaplain (and how unjust was it that he got to sit in a nice, warm chamber and do nothing but _write_?) – Gwen felt that she could face the day again. For a little while at least.

Which was a good thing, as he would learn soon enough, for today was to be weaving time.

Once again, it was Earonn who came to fetch her and lead her to the weaving room, which, just like the workroom of the seamstresses, was situated in the women’s wing of the Prince’s palace. It was a fairly large room, with half a dozen huge looms standing on the opposite side of the windows, so that the light would fall onto the cloth being made on them in the right angle. 

They were all so-called two beam looms, where a bar was used to hold the bottom of the threads taut. These hung down in two layers and were held apart by means of a shaft, which could be moved to and fro, thus creating a shed through which the weft could be passed. Wool and linen could be mixed on these looms, with the wool creating the warp threads and the linen the weft. This combination tangled far less than wool on wool, although the outcome greatly depended on how fine and furry the wool threads were.

The person in charge of the weaving business was a well-rounded, sweet-faced woman in her early forties, called Olwyn. She looked Gwen once up and down with bright brown eyes and seemed less than impressed with her. Then she gave Gwen a frame loom – basically a rectangle with nails or pins across the top and bottom edges – and showed her how to thread it up, thus creating the weft, and how to weave.

It all seemed terribly complicated, and Gwen started panicking again. Now that she had to admit that all this was the bitter reality with no hope to get away any time soon, things frightened her even more than before. Fortunately, she was allowed to watch the others for a while first before she’d have to make the first attempts.

The weaving was done by hand – there was no machinery to lift up alternate threads – and it seemed fairly back-breaking. Gwen was surprised to see the apparent ease the women worked on the standing looms that were so much larger compared to the frame she had been given.

Several of the weavers offered her to try her hand on their looms. After some hesitation she did give it a try, and the women made encouraging noises at her clumsy handling of the task. However, after each of her attempts they undid all her work when they thought she wasn’t looking. At least they tried _not_ to giggle too loudly while doing so.

Gwen scowled at them angrily nonetheless. If they didn’t like what she was doing, they shouldn’t have offered, should they? Who gave them the right to make fun of her?

When her turn finally came, she was given rather thick woollen thread, a thing that seemed like some kind of comb to push down the weave once she had threaded it in and out of the weft, and a long, flat stick that was threaded under and over the weft and could be turned on its side (so raising all the threads running over it) and making at least going one way across the loom a lot quicker.

Her frame was about four foot by three and leant against a side wall. She was given a stool on which to sit while working, but to start off with she had to sit on the floor as she worked since the bottom of the frame was so low down. This looked all terribly complicated and very hard work, and she hated the mere sight of it – but she had no other choice than to give it a try. So she sighed and did exactly that.

What seemed an eternity later, Olwyn came to check on her work. She seemed even less impressed than before. She shook her head, trying to smooth the few inches of weaving Gwen had done with both hands, indicating that Gwen was pulling everything too tight, wrinkling the cloth that she was about to make right at the roots. She then pulled it all out and gestured Gwen to start it again.

The same scenario repeated itself time and time again, until it became too dark to keep working. Gwen’s back ached worse than even after the regular washing days; so much indeed that she needed help to get up from the floor – help that was provided by Earonn, who yanked her to her feet unceremoniously. Her fingers were raw from the rough wool and her eyes swam with unshed tears; and all she had achieved in that afternoon were about four inches of irregularly woven cloth that would have no real use for anyone. Still, they made it clear that she was to return to continue her work. Terrific!

Earonn nudged her in the ribs a little impatiently, explaining with wide, sweeping gestures that they’d go and have a bath in the stream, but Gwen shook her head. That was the last thing she needed after a terrible day like this: a bath in a freezing river. Perhaps she could get some hot water from the kitchen for a proper wash if she looked sweetly enough at the kitchen boys. Perhaps they’d even carry the bucket to the guest room for her. She wanted to look moderately presentable for the dinner table, as Prince Rhun was supposed to be in residence tonight.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Prince Owain’s _llys_ was a-busting with activity on that evening. Preparations for an unusually opulent meal had been going on all day, as the Prince was entertaining honoured guests that night. Not only had Prince Rhun returned from his short visit to his brother Hywel’s domain in Ceredigion, he had also brought guests with him – nobles from all corners of Gwynedd, who intended to celebrate the onset of harvest time with their overlord.

Ianto was looking forward to this event with great interest, this being the first time that he would see the lesser lords of the country with his own eyes. Now he would be able to put faces to the names he’d seen on documents and private letters all the time. He even limped out to the courtyard, leaning heavily on his cane, to watch them riding into the _maenol_ , as the arrival of such noble entourages was usually a merry and colourful event.

He was not the only one to do so, either. The entire princely household – or at least those who didn’t have any urgent work to do at the moment – gathered on the walls and rooftops to watch the spectacle. Cuhelyn, too, emerged from somewhere within the hall and came to stand next to Ianto. He was relatively new to the court, too, as Ianto had just recently learned, having been the personal guard of Anarawd, the late Prince of Deheubarth who had been assassinated only half a year previously. That had been the occasion where Cuhelyn, the only survivor of the ambush, had lost his sword-arm. Owain then had taken him into his own service, as the young man, being ambidextrous, was still capable of wielding the sword with his remaining hand – although perhaps not with the same skill.

Therefore it was understandable that he’d been the first to befriend another stranger; something for which Ianto was very grateful. They were still struggling towards better understanding, but they had a lot in common already. Thus Ianto smiled briefly at the darkly handsome, one-armed warrior who joined him before the church and turned his attention back to the spectacular approach of Prince Owain’s guests.

He already knew the burly, handsomely dressed man who rode in first. It was Gruffudd ab Rhys, Owain’s bailiff at Rhos; an experienced and sceptical officer, coming to render account of his stewardship, as he did every other month. Ianto had met him once and was told by Urien that the bailiff was an observant man; not only a quick and agile listener, but a shrewd dissector of feelings and motives, too.

Ianto fervently hoped that the bailiff would _not_ be present when it came to the telling of his tale. He seriously doubted that he would be able to fool him, and as for the whole truth – how could he tell them _that_?

Next to the bailiff rode a big, muscular man in his late forties, bearded with long moustaches and an unruly mane of wavy brown hair. His rich attire – including an olive-green, bag-sleeved riding tunic made of the finest wool and girdled with a gold-plaited leather belt, upon which his scabbard was fastened, a fine linen shirt, a dark red woollen hood with hoses of the same fabric and colour, with golden-brown ankle boots of soft suede – and the beautiful harness of his fine horse spoke of wealth and importance.

“Einon ab Ithel,” Cuhelyn said quietly. “Ranking second only to Owain’s own _penteulu_. He’s also husband to the Lady Dylis.”

“They separated?” Ianto asked in surprise; he wouldn't have thought that divorce was possible in the twelfth century.

Cuhelyn shrugged. “She cannot bear him children; ‘tis better so. This way, he has his mistress and his sons, and she has her office in Aber and the respect of all people. They’re both content.”

Ianto, getting if not every world then at least the gist of it – he was already better at understanding the local dialect than actually speaking it – nodded in agreement. A nobleman of this era could not afford to remain childless. And an important office at the royal court could give back a woman the respect she had lost for being barren. Besides, the Lady Dylis was a resolute and highly capable person. Why, she had even accompanied Owain’s troops on the campaign against the Danes lately, to personally oversee the support train!

“And him?” Ianto asked, nodding towards another richly-clad, iron-grey man on a tall roan horse, flanked by two younger nobles, one of which was clearly his son. The other, a head shorter and black of hair and eye, seemed to enjoy at least a son’s status with him, although without any physical resemblance.

“Gruffydd ab Meilyr,” Cuhelyn replied. "His wife is kin to the Prince, too… a cousin of some sort, if I’m not mistaken. The long lad in the dark blue cottee is Eliud, his son. The other one is Elis ab Cynan, an orphaned cousin of Eliud’s, who was given into fosterage to Gruffydd. The two grew up closer than brothers. You know how it is with fostering.”

Ianto nodded; he had read often enough about that. “What about the ladies?” he asked. There were only two of those in the company, both quite young, but they couldn’t be any more different if they tried.

“Well, Gruffydd’s wife apparently stayed at home,” Cuhelyn said, “So these must be the wives of the young ones. I do not know them. But I was told that Eliud married Cristina ferch Tudur, the only daughter of Owain’s closest ally in Powys. Elis, though, fell in mad love with a Norman girl from Shropshire while in captivity and fought over a year for the right to marry her. She’s called Melicent, they say.”

There could hardly be any doubt which woman was which: the Welshwoman small, trim, dark-haired and bright-eyed, the Norman lady tall, pale, oval-faced and dazzlingly fair, with periwinkle-blue eyes and hair so fair like spun silver and finer than gossamer. She stood out among the dark Welshwomen like a silver birch – it did not surprise Ianto that her now-husband would have fallen for her, as she was truly, breath-takingly beautiful.

“They say, her father was Sir Gilbert Prestcote, then King Stephen’s sheriff in Shropshire,” Cuhelyn murmured. “Sir Gilbert was severely wounded in the Battle of Lincoln and captured by our lord’s wayward brother, Cadwaladr, whose men fought with the troops of Powys on the Empress Maud’s side. At the same time, Elis was taken prisoner and held in Shrewsbury Castle, to be exchanged for Sir Gilbert,” he grinned. “Apparently, your Brother Cadfael was the envoy sent to Owain to negotiate the exchange.”

That made sense. The good brother was a Welshman, after all, and thus had a better chance to achieve something with his countrymen than any English officer.

“That was how Elis met the Lady Melicent,” Cuhelyn continued, warming up to the topic, “and how they fell in love. Unfortunately, Sir Gilbert died from his injuries, and the men of Powys decided to raid the settlements along the border, thus tempers were running a bit high on both sides. She ran off to a nunnery, for she thought Elis had murdered her father who would never allow them to marry; he hot-footed after her, just in time to help protect the nunnery from a raiding band of Powys… oh, it was a fine adventure! The bards are still singing ballads about it.”

Apparently, it was considered a great story and good entertainment, as Cuhelyn’s usually so sombre black eyes were twinkling in amusement. Ianto couldn’t help but grin back at him. It sounded like some old-fashioned mantle-and-dagger adventure film, complete with a damsel in distress, a doomed love and all other ingredients.

They watched the nobles and their entourage, consisting of guards, grooms, tirewomen and a cart with the finery of the ladies and food supplies come into the courtyard, where they were welcomed by Princess Gwladus and the Lady Dylis, as the men were still away a-hunting. A truly princely feast wouldn’t have been proper without roast venison, and Owain and the men of his _teulu_ were doing their best to provide that particular addition to the menu.

“Tonight, it will only be a moderate supper,” Cuhelyn added. “The big feast is planned for tomorrow, when Hywel arrives with Prince Cadell of Deheubarth.”

Ianto frowned; the name was one he hadn’t heard from his hosts so far. Cuhelyn sighed, all signs of mirth vanishing from his face.

“You know that my lord and foster brother, Prince Anarawd, was murdered by Cadwaladr’s men last autumn, don’t you?” he began.

Ianto nodded. That was a fact noted in Welsh history for its significance. Anarawd’s assassination prevented the alliance between Gwynedd and Deheubarth and robbed the Welsh from their chance to form a strong front against the English invaders. And all that because Cadwaladr had an imaginary grievance against the Prince of Deheubarth. Or a real one, who could probably tell it after all those centuries? It had been a very narrow-minded action, in any case.

“Anarawd was to wed Princess Marared, Owain’s daughter,” Cuhelyn went on, “and thus forge a strong alliance between our kingdoms. Of course, Anarawd’s death thwarted that plan. Now Owain has decided to marry off the Princess to Anarawd’s brother, Prince Cadell, and make an attempt to save the alliance, after all.

Ianto nodded again, this time a little surprised. It was a good plan, but one history failed to take notice of. Which was strange, as Cadell survived his brother by more than thirty years, for ten of which he held the throne of Deheubarth and proved quite a successful ruler.

“What says the Princess?” he asked in his still broken local Welsh.

Cuhelyn shrugged. “She barely knew Anarawd and has never seen Cadell in person. Royal blood can rarely follow their own hearts. Wedding the one brother or the other should be the same for her.”

“Would it be the same for Gwynedd and Deheubarth?” Ianto asked.

Cuhelyn shook his head. “No. Prince Cadell is a good man and an able warrior; and he and his brothers get along very well, which, I’m sure you’re aware of, is a rare thing among Welsh Princes. But he isn’t anything close to Anarawd’s tactical genius, shrewd mind and captivating personality. I _hope_ this alliance will work out, for the sake of our people, but I just cannot see how it could be possible without an equally strong Prince in Deheubarth. Anarawd was more than Owain’s match. Cadell is not.”

“You must have loved your foster brother very much,” Ianto said quietly. Cuhelyn’s grief and fierce pride could not go unnoticed, not even by less observant people than Ianto Jones.

“More than life itself,” Cuhelyn replied simply. “Even though there were no blood ties between us, I’m but an empty shell without him.”

That answer made Ianto wonder about the exact nature of the bond between the one-armed warrior and his now-dead Prince.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Owain Gwynedd and his _teulu_ returned from the successful hunt just a little after sunset. Allowing himself but a quick wash, the Prince summoned his high-ranking guests to his private chamber on the same evening, to discuss matters of importance with them.

The most important of those matters was the upcoming betrothal of Princess Marared to Prince Cadell of Deheubarth, of course, as it gave them hope that the alliance between the two kingdoms could be still saved, despite the selfish actions of Owain’s land-hungry brother, Cadwaladr. It was a matter of general relief that Prince Cadell would step into the vacated place of his brother in all things, even going as far as entering the dynastic marriage Anarawd could no longer fulfil. However, just like Cuhelyn, Owain had his doubts whether the young Prince would have the power and greatness to fill Anarawd’s shoes.

“For what I’ve heard so far, he might care more for the interests of Deheubarth than for an alliance with Gwynedd… or with any other kingdom,” the Prince of Gwynedd said, somewhat unhappily. “Anarawd was peerless in his far-sight, I fear.”

Einon ab Ithel shrugged. “Or ‘tis only Cuhelyn who’s biased when it comes to his late lord,” he suggested.

“Perhaps so,” Owain allowed. “’Tis not only Cuhelyn who asks himself whether the new Prince of Deheubarth will follow the footsteps of his late father and brother, though. Still, we have no other choice. There’s little hope that we might come to an agreement with Powys; so we have to use our only chance to keep a key ally.”

They all agreed with that, and the discussion turned to other subjects of general interest. It had been quite some time since they all met like this, each of them being more or less bound to their own lands, save from wartime.

“What about those strange people you’ve found after the skirmish with the Danes?” Einon ab Ithel asked after a while. “Have you learned aught about them?”

Owain shook his head. “Nought but their names, so far; but they are very strange indeed. We suspect that the wench might be a little mad; she cannot sew, cannot weave, and has apparently never washed clothes in her life, or so your wife tells me,” he added with a nod towards Gruffydd ab Meilyr. “I cannot imagine what she was doing all her life – and how she survived; for she doesn’t look like someone of high birth who’d have been surrounded with servants since early childhood. Quite frankly, she seems to be as common as dirt. And yet she behaves like someone who has never worked a day in her life. ‘Tis deeply odd.”

“And the young man?” Einon asked. “I saw him with Cuhelyn when we rode into Aber. He appears to be fitting in well enough.”

Owain nodded. “He has a little Latin, which was how he ended up helping Urien with copying letters and documents. He writes a clean hand, good for contracts and other simple stuff, though he knows nothing in the way of illuminating or festive script. But at least he makes himself useful. He’s also making some headway learning our dialect. One can already speak with him of simple things.”

“That’s good,” the bailiff, who had been quiet most of the time during their discussion, said. “Then he can be questioned, soon.”

“I intend to do so, right after the betrothal feast,” Owain replied. “Which is why I’ve summoned _you_ to Aber at this time. I deem myself a good judge of a man’s heart, but you’re perhaps even better at it. I want you to be present when I question him – _and_ the two of you,” he added, looking at his kinsmen by marriage, who nodded in agreement.

“That should prove… _interesting_ ,” Gruffydd ab Meilyr commented dryly.

Had Ianto been able to hear them, he might have found this perspective highly unsettling.


	9. Chapter 8 - It's the Kitchens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All food items mentioned here are from the “Goode Cookery” website. And yes, a slaughtered chicken poured over with boiling water does smell abysmally. I’ve had my fair share of chicken plucking in my youth, and this is a memory that will never fade.  
> A stone grain measurement table similar to the one described here can be seen on the main street of the little Swiss town Gruyeres.
> 
>  **Rating:** Adult, for this part, just to be on the safe side.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER EIGHT – IT'S THE KITCHENS!**

The betrothal dinner of a Princess to an important ally was perhaps the greatest social and political event at peacetime and needed to be celebrated accordingly. The first preparations had already started days ago, but the buzzing activity reached its peak on the day of the event itself.

Master Drystan, the head cook of the Prince, planned a dinner of four courses, each course consisting of two to seven individual dishes, which meant that they needed as many people helping out as they could get for the menial tasks. Even the tirewomen of the Princesses had been roped in.

Gwen was a little bewildered when she found no-one but Blodwen and Princess Marared in the sewing room, where she was due to appear every morning to practice her stitching. The Princess was trying on a new pendant-sleeve gown, made of dark brown raw silk with olive green trimming, and a double wrapped green belt. She looked absolutely stunning in it, like in just about everything. She was also wearing a white wimple with a rectangular silk veil that Gwen had never seen her wearing before, and now wondered why she would put it on.

Before she could have stated any tentative attempts to ask, Earonn stormed in, said something to the Princess apologetically and dragged Gwen out of the room. Used to this sort of treatment by now, Gwen rolled her eyes and went with her without protesting. 

It wouldn’t have done her any good to resist anyway. Earonn was a force of nature. It was better to just follow her.

Until she realized _where_ they were heading, in which moment Gwen came to an abrupt halt.

They were heading to the kitchens, which had their very own outbuildings downwind from the Hall. She had been there occasionally, of course, but it had never been expected from her to stay there and actually _help_. 

Until now. 

She had a really, _really_ bad feeling about this. Cooking had been Rhys’ task back home; she’d never cooked anything more complicated than an omelette.

Earonn tugged on her sleeve impatiently and said something that did _not_ sound friendly. Gwen suppressed a groan and followed her – what other choice did she have?

The kitchens of the royal seat consisted of several large rooms, each specialized for a particular task - which was understandable, considering for how many people they needed to cook all the time. These rooms formed a U-shape, with open, roofed verandas facing the small courtyard they surrounded, so that certain tasks could be performed outside, at least in summer.

Several young girls – none of them looked older than thirteen or fourteen – were working on one of those verandas, making some sort of noodles of dough that seemed like pasta: small noodles, “as fine as the worms that are found in cheese”, as someone would later explain to Gwen. These girls were making them in summertime for the whole year, drying them in the sun to make them last longer. They were to be well culled and washed before cooking, then set to dry for a while, and _then_ cooked in good, fat meat broth, with a lot of saffron, and sprinkled with fine grated cheese when dishing up.

All of this Gwen would learn much later. At the moment, all she could see was that it seemed endless and boring work, and was happy that she was _not_ required to help with that. Even though the girls appeared cheerful enough to chat and even sing while working on them.

She changed her opinion at once when Earonn dragged her into the east wing of the kitchens. There she was given an apron made of rough, undyed linen and led to a long table, at which several people were sitting on stools, plucking chickens. In the middle of the table large iron pots stood, with freshly butchered chickens waiting for their turn.

One of the kitchen helpers now brought a bucket of boiling hot water and poured it over the dead birds, to soften the feathers and thus make the plucking easier. The stench arising from the carcasses after this simple action was indescribable. Gwen turned green at once and seriously considered running out of there and throwing up. Unfortunately, Earonn had counted on that reaction from her and pushed her down onto one of the stools firmly. Then she selected a chicken from the pot, sat down next to Gwen and started plucking.

Forcing down her breakfast that tried to resurface again, Gwen followed suit. It was disgusting, but it seemed simple enough. You laid the dead… _thing_ across your lap and pulled. Easy peasy.

Only that the head of the chicken kept flopping limply over her knee at every movement. Ewwwwww! And all she managed was getting a few half-broken off feathers in her hand. Oh God, this was tougher than it looked!

Someone nudged her. She looked beside her to see Meurig, one of the kitchen helpers – a shaggy, dark-haired boy with very bright eyes – grinning at her. He said something she couldn’t understand and proceeded to show her how to pull against the lie of the feathers, and with some force, too. He worked in a steady rhythm, then he nodded and smiled at her, indicating that she should give it a try.

She did, and she had to admit that it was much easier that way. Even if it was still utterly disgusting. And there were an alarming number of dead chickens, all waiting to be plucked. Oh God, how could people _eat_ after having done _this_ for a while? How did they get the vile stench out of their nostrils?

Gwen was seriously considering becoming a vegetarian.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
More than an hour later she was still struggling with the same chicken, while all other helpers had finished several each and gone on to other tasks. Drystan Cook rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“She’s the most useless wench I’ve ever had the misfortune to endure in my kitchens,” he growled. “Meurig, finish that chicken of hers or we’ll never get the beef and chicken pie done. Cerys, take her with you; we’ll need lots of almond milk for tonight, and _perhaps_ she’ll manage to grind almonds without causing any harm.”

As animal milk had to be used immediately, either in cooking or by turning it into cheese or butter, cooks serving in noble households often substituted it in their more… sensitive dishes with the milky liquid produced by grinding almonds or walnuts. This ‘milk’ could be prepared fresh whenever needed and in whatever amounts, but it could also be made well ahead of time and stored with no danger of it going wrong.

Of course, being the head cook of a _princely_ household, Drystan insisted on using almonds only (which gave the liquid a much finer, nobler taste), and on producing the almond milk afresh every time he needed it for one of his creations. For tonight’s feast, he would need almond milk (or ground almonds) for the Saxon broth, for the so-called Saracen brodo, and particularly for a dozen or so apple and almond milk pies, so there were whole bags of almonds to be ground. Literally.

Cerys, one of the young girls working for the kitchens, dragged Gwen with her to the _nut pantry_ , as it was called. It turned out to be the room where whole walnuts, hazelnuts and almonds were stored all year long in earthenware pots covered on top with metal mesh, so that the nuts could breathe but the mice, always present in such places, could not get in. Gwen admitted – albeit reluctantly – that it was a truly clever solution.

In the middle of the nut pantry stood the strangest thing she’d seen since her arrival to this place – and _that_ was saying a lot. Basically, it was a slab of stone, with five bowl-shaped holes of different sizes on top. The same number of holes could be seen on the sides, three on one side and two on the other one. These were connected to the top holes, so that whatever was poured in on top could flow out again on the side, though what purpose the whole thing would have, Gwen couldn’t even begin to guess.

She got to learn it right away, though. Cerys placed a large bowl right under one of the side holes and filled the top one connected to it with almonds. Then she removed the wooden stopper from the upper hole and let the almonds roll into the bowl. She repeated the process three more times, ‘til she found the amount of almonds the right one, and suddenly Gwen had a lightbulb moment.

A measurement table! The bloody stone slab was a measurement table! Despite her misgivings towards the whole place, she had to admit that this, too, was a very clever design.

Cerys then indicated that they should take stools to the nearby table and start cracking the almonds – which took about an hour, in Gwen’s rough estimate, and resulted in a number of broken and blackened fingernails. Almond shells were awfully hard to crack, especially if one only had two stones – a flat one and a round one – to work with. After that, Cerys measured the almond kernels and found the amount sufficient to be ground.

Grinding was another back-breaking affair, done by two large, flat stones that were turned by a leather thong that needed to be moved by a handle, while pressing down the upper stone – hard – with the other hand. It was still better than simply rubbing the two stones together, but it killed one’s back nonetheless. Unlike walnut kernels, almonds proved to be bloody hard to grind; Gwen could barely lift her aching arms when they were finally done.

And that had only been the grinding! Making almond milk clearly required more than just that. Apparently, the ground almonds had to be mixed with boiling water in equal amounts – as apple and almond milk pies required the double-thick version of the milky stuff – steeped for about five minutes and stirred occasionally; which, given the thickness of the mixture and the fact that it was being prepared in a twenty-litre cauldron, wasn’t an easy task. Then it had to be strained through a cloth to remove coarse grains, filled into smaller pots and taken to the main kitchen area for the cooks to use it.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The main kitchen area was bustling with activity, the preparations for the dinner feast reaching their final phase. One of the helpers was blending soft cheese with honey into a spread for bread. Another one was frying thin slices of beef in butter. A third one was preparing a sauce of cider vinegar, water and lots of spices to go with it. Again other ones were tearing lettuce to pieces, mincing green onions, chopping fresh herbs, red cabbage, cucumbers, raisins and walnuts, and mixing them with red wine vinegar, walnut oil and honey for the salad.

Drystan Cook oversaw the preparation of the Saxon broth himself, although the actual work was done by his helpers. He accepted the bowl of ground almonds that had _not_ been made into almond milk from Cerys and gave it a suspicious look.

“Have you cleaned the kernels thoroughly so that no bits of shell were left?” he asked.

Cerys nodded. “Of course, Cook. I also washed them in good water and had them ground without peeling the skin off them – the way you prefer them.”

“Very good,” said the head cook. “Now, moisten them with good, fat meat broth; then take a good two-handed pot, and with meat broth strain the amount needed for the table of the Prince. Tonight, that would be for thirty people, at least. Broth is standing on the oven; but check it first that it is not too salty.”

Cerys nodded again and gestured Gwen, who could still barely understand a word out of ten, to help her. Gwen panicked slightly by the thought of having such huge pots to lift, and imagined them slipping and the boiling hot bouillon sloshing all over her. Luckily for her, though, no-one was insane enough to entrust her with the safety of the festive soup. She was merely given a small stone mortar and a pestle, with a handful of exotic spices – grains of paradise pepper, nutmegs, mace, cloves, and even some saffron – to grind and mix them for the broth.

Someone else was cutting the chickens they had plucked into quarters, while someone else brought the same amount of red flesh that seemed either pork or lamb or veal, and cut it up to the size of the quartered poultry. A third one was melting bacon fat in a large pan, adding minced onions, and then finally the two sorts of meat to fry it all together.

Soon, the kitchen was so thick with the smell and smoke of it that Gwen could barely breathe and had to fight hard not to throw up. She was sure the stench of burning fat would remain in her hair and clothes for _days_.

Suddenly, washing clothes in a freezing river seemed strangely attractive. _Everything_ was better than this!

And her trials did not end with _that_. Just a little later, she found herself peeling and chopping carrots; then draining cooked legumes, so that they could be fried in grease with onions and garlic. Then she was grating cheese. Then she had to peel apples and cut them in slices. And on and on and on… the string of menial tasks seemed to have no end.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The sun had already begun to sink beyond the mountains when she was finally released and stumbled out of the kitchens, barely able to walk upright. As she dragged herself towards the guest chamber where she was still allowed to stay, filthy and smelly and aching all over, she could hear the stupid serving wenches giggling and chattering excitedly behind her. Some of them had apparently been ordered to serve at the princely table in the Hall tonight.

She couldn’t understand their excitement. Did these cows never get tired? They had laboured in the hot kitchens all day, just like herself, and they were _looking forward_ to slaving in the Hall as well? Running around, serving food and drinks to their fat masters, avoiding groping hands as well as they could, and then probably getting shagged afterwards in some shadowy corner? She shook her head in bewilderment.

She would sell her soul for a proper bath right now, but she seriously doubted they’d let her have one. There _was_ a great deal of coming and going in and out of the royal bath-house, but she assumed the visiting ladies were being waited on there, with rose oil in soap and bath water and all that. She was incredibly envious; plus seething with anger. What made those cows better than she was? She’d bet they never made their hands dirty, having servants to do all the work for them; even washing their stupid hair and getting them dressed.

But even if she couldn’t get a good, hot bath, the condition of her clothes – and herself – was intolerable. The smell of fat and other fried foodstuffs would stay in her room and get into her other clothes as well. She _needed_ to wash it off, no matter what it cost. So she chose the only remaining option: a quick bath in the stream.

This wasn’t one of the designated bathing days for women, but she didn’t care. She was so far beyond caring it wasn’t even funny anymore. Besides, everyone was busy with the visitors, and she knew just the right place where she could hide under the bushes that were hanging deeply over the water.

She gathered her soap, her comb and some clean clothes, and hurried down to the stream, as well as her aching limbs allowed. Quickly undressing, she laid out her clothes on the bank to air them while bathing, and slipped into the water. God, it was cold! She shook violently, but at least the cold washed away part of her exhaustion; she did no longer feel quite that numb. She started to wash herself, scrubbing her skin vigorously until it became pink and sensitive, in the hope that she would be able to wash off the kitchen smell. She even ducked _under_ the icy water, to wash her hair, and wrung it out afterwards with a vehemence that made her scalp hurt. She hated, hated HATED this sodding place!

Finally done, she waded out of the water and rubbed herself with the rough linen towel mercilessly. It did not absorb water all too well, so drying herself was always long and hard work, but at least it stimulated the circulation. She put on her undershift and, bending forward, rubbed her hair with the towel the longest time, in order to get it as dry as she could, before wrapping it into the other, dry towel and around her head like a turban. The last thing she needed was to get a head cold.

She put on the kirtle as well and collected her dirty clothes, contemplating for a moment to wash them on the spot – then rejected the idea. They could wait till the next washing day; and if she put them into that wicker basket Earonn had given her the other day and place them before her door, the greasy smell hopefully would not get into her room.

Relieved to have dealt with the problem for the time being, she headed back to the _maenol_ , even humming a little under her breath. Yes, it had been an awful day, but at least it was over, and she could relax a little.

She was fairly surprised to find Ianto waiting for her in front of her door, leaning heavily on his cane.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she asked suspiciously. They hadn’t let him near her for weeks, and now he was just standing there, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world?

“Lady Dylis sent me to fetch you,” Ianto replied. “You’re required to serve at the tables in the Hall tonight. They’re short of personnel to serve so many guests and wanted to make sure you understood that you’re needed.”

That was the moment when Gwen lost it. She dropped everything in her hand and, taking a great swing, she punched Ianto in the face with such force that he lost his already precarious balance and fell.

“You can tell that fat cow she can kiss up to his bloody Prince and his sodding guests herself!” she screeched. “I’m no-one’s serving wench!”

And with that, she stormed off into the deepening darkness, without actually seeing where she was running.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Cuhelyn found Ianto about ten minutes or so later, sitting on the ground, trying to stop the bleeding of his nose. To say that he was shocked by that sight would have been an understatement.

“What happened to you?” he asked. “Who dared to raise a hand against you?”

“Gwen happened,” Ianto replied dryly, and Cuhelyn’s black eyes became even darker with anger.

“That bitch!” he hissed. “I’ll see that she’s taught a proper lesson.”

“No, please!” Ianto touched the other man’s maimed arm lightly, trying to make him understand, despite his still wacky medieval Welsh. “She not bad. Just… this life, hard for her. Working so much, so hard, is new for her. She just angry.”

“And she’s hitting _you_ , a man under the Prince’s protection, and an injured one at that, just to vent her anger?” Cuhelyn shook his head. “That cannot be tolerated.”

Ianto was still holding onto his arm stump. “If you tell… what happens?”

“Why, she’ll be flogged, of course!” Cuhelyn said. “She’s been given too much leeway already; that was clearly a mistake.”

“No,” Ianto said. “Not because of me, I beg you.”

Cuhelyn gave him a piercing look. “Are you in love with her?”

“Not me,” Ianto smiled sadly. “Her husband… a good friend, decent man. I promised to keep her safe. For him. I gave my _word_.”

Cuhelyn thought about that for a moment. Like every self-respecting Welshman, he held the given word of a man in high esteem, and he believed this stranger to be a good, honest man. If _he_ did not want to press charges against the madwoman under his protection, others did not truly have the right to interfere – unless she would attack someone _else_.

“Very well,” he finally said. “I won’t tell anyone… _this_ time. I make no promises for the future, though.”

Ianto nodded. “Fair enough.”

“I still don’t like it,” Cuhelyn said. “But at least your nose isn’t bleeding any more. Can you get up on your own? You’ve taken a heavy fall; I hope you have not reinjured yourself.”

Ianto tried to get back to his feet alone, but the shooting pain in his back warned him that he had probably jarred his still healing spine badly through the fall. He wasn’t so stupid as to refuse help when it was offered, though.

“Back hurts,” he admitted. “Help?”

“Surely,” like before, Cuhelyn grabbed him under the arms with his one good arm and practically lifted him to his feet. There was something strangely attractive in so much strength, Ianto admitted to himself, feeling a little guilty. He knew it was just gratitude – without Cuhelyn, he’d have probably died on that abandoned battlefield – but it still felt a little like cheating.

“When you’re better, I’ll have to teach you how to defend yourself,” Cuhelyn added, grinning. “Injured or not, it’s a shame to allow a madwoman to knock you off your feet so easily. Come with me now. We must clean you up; you cannot sit at the Prince’s table in bloodied clothes.”

That was certainly true, even though, technically, they would both sit at the lower tables, where neither the Prince nor his guests were likely to take notice. Still, one showed proper respect towards one’s lord, even if said lord had no means to actually _see_ it. Ianto still had one objection, though.

“Gwen,” he said. “I must find her. Lady Dylis wants her serve in Hall tonight,”

“Leave that to me,” Cuhelyn replied. “I’ll have the servants look for her. You must be cleaned up; and tomorrow you’ll see Master Hefin with that back of yours, you hear me?”

“Yes, Mam,” Ianto grinned, despite the pain in his back. Cuhelyn had sounded just like his sister, Rhiannon, when she thought he wouldn’t take proper care of himself.

Cuhelyn thumped him in the back with his arm stump and grinned back. “Don’t go insolent on me,” he said with a mock warning in his voice. “Come now; we must hurry up!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gwen’s flight did not take her very far from the _maenol_. Just outside the walls, she stumbled upon a small fire, where the young cockerels of some visiting lord’s entourage were sharing ale, songs and stories. The banner at their fire – a red one, with a golden lion in the middle of it – revealed them as men of Deheubarth, who had come as Prince Cadell’s honour guard to escort him to his betrothal ceremony with the Princess Marared.

They jumped to their feet at once when she stumbled into their midst, swords drawn and on the ready with the same move… only to laugh uproariously – being more than just a little drunk already – when they recognized it was only a serving wench.

“Behold the foes the Prince of Gwynedd sends out to face us!” one of them roared, holding his belly. “Are you men enough to face this peril, friends?”

“Now, _this_ is a foe I’d love to slay this very night,” another one snickered and put his broadsword back into its sheath. “Not with _this_ blade, mind you. I’ve got another one, better suited to _that_ prickling.”

And with that, he caught Gwen around the waist and yanked her against himself, pressing his groin to her backside to make her feel his hardness. With his free hand, he took hold of her breast, kneading it roughly.

Gwen screamed and kicked and flailed with her arms but could not free herself. That bastard was simply too strong, and the others were firing him on, howling with laughter. Nightmarish visions of them raping her, one after another, emerged before her inner eye, and she started sobbing pathetically, when their game was interrupted by a voice that cracked like a whip.

“Don’t you _dare_ to lay hand on one of Prince Owain’s household!” Old Rhodri yelled at them, and the young drunkards visibly shrank before his withering glare. “Your lord will deal with you tomorrow; I’ll see to _that_. And _you_ ,” he turned to Gwen in apparent dismay, “should be in the Hall by now. Be even more late, and you’ll get a taste of the whip, too.”

Gwen didn’t understand everything – in truth, she understood very little from the old servant’s scolding – but one thing was adamantly clear: she was to report in the Hall, even though she’d nearly been gang-raped by some drunken bastards just now – or bear the consequences.

It was so bloody _unfair_! Jack’s little man-whore was being mollycoddled and pampered, while she had to do the hardest, dirtiest, most disgusting work all day, and that stupid old fart was threatening _her_ with consequences?

Still, she did not dare to disobey. Even in those few weeks they had spent in Aber, she’d seen servants being whipped of flogged for various offences. Publicly. That was the last thing she would need right now, after all that had already happened today.

Blinded by tears about the unfairness of it all, she headed back to the Hall, determined to flee this place as soon as she’d learned the local dialect well enough to manage on her own. There _had_ to be more reasonable people, even in this era. And when she managed to get back to Cardiff, Jack would have a much easier time finding her.

After all, wasn’t that wrist strap of his supposed to enable him to travel through time?

The fact that last time they had seen each other Jack was about to be blown to pieces didn’t bother her too much. Jack had died before, many times, and he had always come back. He would come back this time, too. She just needed to be in the right place to meet him.


	10. Chapter 9 - Dining with Princes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All food items mentioned here are from the “Goode Cookery” website.  
> In actuality, Gwalchmai ap Meilyr was born in 1130, so at the time this story takes place he’d be only 13 years old. I moved his birth back half a decade or so, just to give such an iconic figure a cameo – do forgive me!  
>  **Rating:** back to General, for this part.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**CHAPTER NINE – DINING WITH PRINCES**

Ianto admitted to himself that he was _not_ looking forward to tonight’s festive dinner any more than Gwen might have. Even though he was lucky enough _not_ to have to wait upon the noble visitors, such affairs lasted _hours_ , and his back still protested when he had to sit – or stand – in the same position for too long. He expected that this would be even more the case now that he had taken a rather heavy fall, due to Gwen’s most recent temper tantrum.

He was annoyed with her for lashing out at him in her anger; but to a certain extent he could understand it. It must have been hard for her, spoiled as she was by Rhys – and most likely by her parents before that – ending up doing the dirtiest, lowliest work for the lack of any useful skills. Plus, she had clearly expected the day’s trials to have ended, only to find out that they were far from over yet. This had been the typical reaction of shooting the messenger upon receiving bad news.

It still did not give her the right to hit _him_ , but Ianto had seen her revert to physical violence before, whenever she was angry with someone. Granted, that someone had usually been Jack, who had let her get away with _everything_ for some reason Ianto still failed to understand, but it was in no way out of character for her.

“I guess I’ve just entered the circle of the chosen few exposed to domestic violence by Gwen-bloody-Cooper,” Ianto thought sourly, pressing a wet cloth to his bruised face. He did not want to appear in the Hall wearing all colours of the rainbow; nor did he want to explain _how_ he had become so… colourful.

“There will be some bruising,” Cuhelyn judged, examining his face, “but in the dimness of the Hall only those will notice who sit at the same table with us. Come now. ‘Tis almost time, and it wouldn’t be respectful to arrive _after_ the Prince and his guests.”

They went to the Hall together, Cuhelyn keeping Ianto on his right, so that he could catch him, should he falter. But Ianto could walk steadily enough, despite the shooting pain in his back. They were directed to one of the lower tables by Old Rhodri, who acted as the usher and doorkeeper during this feast (being the one who knew everybody best, locals and guests alike), where they sat with Urien, with the Prince’s steward, the members of the royal guard currently off-duty and other ranking servants and warriors.

The most respected and important among them was Cledwyn Brydydd (Cledwyn the Poet), Owain’s _bardd teulu_ – the poet of his retinue and family, who sang to the warriors before battle as well as to the Princess in private. There were other, lesser poets in Owain’s court – twenty-four in number all together, all highly trained professionals, all members of the closely knit bardic order, but Cledwyn was the chief of them, enjoying special status among his fellow poets.

Only one of them stood above even Cledwyn – the _pencerdd_ (head or chief of song), who occupied a special chair (the _eistedd_ ) in the royal court and sat at the Prince’s own table during feasts. The duties of the _pencerdd_ , strictly defined by the law codes, included the singing of one song to God and the other to his temporary lord, the Prince, before the gathering of his court and his guests – a privilege envied by all other poets.

Owain’s _pencerdd_ was a surprisingly young man named Gwalchmai ab Meilyr – a bard famous enough for his name (and some of his poems) to survive till Ianto’s own time. He had been taught Gwalchmai’s most famous work, the _Gorhoffedd_ , at school; granted, in a modern translation, but still. He hoped he would get the chance to hear that famous _awdl_ , considered one of the greatest poems ever written in Welsh, in original. 

Since Hywel ab Owain was also considered a great poet of the period – if not _the_ greatest, despite not being a professional – one could expect that there would be much singing and harping between the courses. Ianto, although literature had never been one of his special interests, was Welsh enough to look forward to it. After all, hadn’t the twelfth century seen a great flourishing of their culture?

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
His thoughts – and the conversation at their table – were interrupted by the horn call signalling the arrival of the royal family and their most honoured guests, invited to set at the high table. Then the doors were tossed open and in they walked, each lord with his lady on the arm, in a glamorous procession of jewelled colours and an excess of silks, gemstones and scented oil.

Owain himself led the procession with his lady, the Princess Gwladus, followed by Einion ab Ithel and the Lady Dilys. Then came Prince Rhun, tall and radiant in his flaxen-haired glory, leading his half-sister Marared – a very picture of beauty in her finery and bridal veil. Other guests followed, among them Elis ab Cynan with his elfin wife Melicent and Eliud ab Gruffudd with his Cristina, and then the guest of honour, the bridegroom-to-be, Prince Cadell of Deheubarth, escorted by Hywel ab Owain himself. Neither of them had a lady on his arm – Cadell understandably, as he was just about to get betrothed to Princess Marared, and Hywel because he had been given the task to see to the needs of their key ally and soon-to-be-kin by marriage.

A second horn call sounded when the Prince and his guests took their places at the high table. Then, at Owain’s brief nod, forth stepped Gwalchmai ab Meilyr with the harp to open the feast with a song. The young poet did so with great exuberance. Ianto was perhaps not the only one to expect him to sing the _awdl_ composed to describe a sea battle off the coast of Anglesey, given that his Prince had just recently emerged victorious from another skirmish with the Danes, but he didn't do that. Instead, he chose to sing the _Gorhoffedd_ indeed, and even though Ianto did not understand everything from the poem, its lyricism and descriptive powers moved him deeply.

_The green wave at Aber Dau woke me,_  
it strikes at the grey shore with is fair streams,  
bravely the birds sing there;  
that's the gentle, hospitable place for me. 

_I know wild grass which confidently grows,_  
I know the proud tree-covering, its flowers are lovely  
I know that I drank mead served tome from gold  
in the hall of tall Owain, brave worthy one. 

As soon as Gwalchmai finished his _awdl_ (and had been properly celebrated for it), the servants began to carry in the dishes of the first course. It started with _payndemayne and chese_ , meaning white bread and a spread of soft cheese, blended with a touch of honey.

This was followed by _cameline meat brewet and pikkyls_ : thin strips of cold, fried beef with cameline sauce and an assortment of pickled items, including olives from the south of the French countries, and roasted peas. 

There was also a salad, called _sallet_ by the locals, made of lettuce, green onions, red cabbage, cucumber and a lot of other ingredients from which Ianto only recognized the raisins and the walnuts. The dressing tasted of vinegar, honey and herbs; a bit sour for his taste, but astonishingly refined for the Middle Ages. 

On the other hand, they were dining at the table of a Prince, of course, and this was an event of rare importance.

By the time the salad was finished Ianto was so full already that he could barely breathe – and all this had only been the introduction to the highlight of the first course, the Saxon broth. This must have been a very popular – not to mention expensive – dish, if the awe and gratitude mirrored on the ranking servants’ and warriors’ face was any indication when their table, too, was granted a large bowl of the thick, spicy soup.

“Try some,” Cuhelyn urged Ianto, seeing that he had not taken any of the highly valued delicacy. “’Tis very good; Drystan Cook makes the best Saxon broth in Gwynedd – and beyond.”

He helped himself to a generous portion and started to eat with gusto, but Ianto shook his head.

“Too much,” he said apologetically. “At home, I eat this much in a week!”

“No wonder you’re so ridiculously weak that a wench can knock you off your feet,” Cuhelyn commented. “You need to eat better! What did your former master feed you anyway?”

This was the first time Cuhelyn would ask _anything_ about Ianto’s past, and while it was a harmless enough question, Ianto felt himself at a loss how to explain someone used to eat like _this_ the concept of fast food. Finally he decided that pizza would be the safest item to describe, as in no way could he make plausible for the young warrior what Chinese take-out would be, to name just one.

“We had a dish we ate,” he began carefully. “Just bread dough, rolled out thinly and packed with thin, sliced meat or grated cheese or sometimes mushrooms. It was baked in the oven, and we ate it hot, with _sallet_. Or with a sauce.”

“Every day?” Cuhelyn almost forgot to eat in his astonishment.

“Often enough,” Ianto admitted. “We ate broth, too, though.”

Cuhelyn shook his head and clasped Ianto’s shoulder with his one hand. “Then you’ve been lucky to end up here, my friend,” he declared. “At least here you’ll be properly fed.”

“Yeah, until I burst at the seams,” Ianto complained.

Cuhelyn grinned at him. “You need some weapons training, or else you’ll get grossly fat,” he declared. “I’ll see to it once you’re better. You can relax now, though. The first course is over, and there will be some entertainment before the second one starts.”

“Thank God!” Ianto replied fervently, making everybody else at their table laugh.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Gwen found it bloody unfair that she had to serve in the Hall, after being nearly gang-raped by some drunken sods just a short time before. That stupid old fart could have let her recover after her traumatic experience, instead of shooing her back to the kitchens, couldn't he? 

That said stupid old fart had actually _saved_ her from being gang-raped by aforementioned drunken sods was a fact she conveniently managed to forget. All she could see was that she had to come back to the Hall to serve a bunch of barbarians in fancy dresses – and that after the horrible day she’d already had – while Ianto got to sit at one of the lower tables with the other clerks, being _served_. Not by _her_ , that would have been the peak of outrage, but still…

All guilty feelings she might have had about punching him in the face evaporated by that sight. Besides, the bruise was barely visible; she hadn’t hit him _that_ hard, had she? To think that he’d had the bloody cheek to hobble over to the guest house and deliver her the orders to come back to the stinking Hall tonight! He’d have deserved more than just the one punch into his stupid face, the sodding little parasite!

She wondered whom Jack’s little man-slut would be servicing with his… _favours_ to earn such privileged treatment. Was he shagging the priest he worked for? That shouldn’t have been allowed, as much as she knew about Catholics (which wasn’t much, really), but everyone knew that priests rarely could be arsed to actually _practice_ the self-discipline they liked to blather about. Or was he offering his arse to that one-armed buddy of his? The crippled barbarian had been mollycoddling him all he time, always _helping_ him, always _supporting_ him – using every chance to lay hand on the teaboy. Literally speaking.

Gwen had to think of poor Jack. What would he say if he knew that his little part-time shag was spreading his favours widely among these Neanderthals? She decided to open Jack’s eyes if – _when!_ – he finally came to take them home. Poor Jack, he didn’t deserve to be betrayed like this! Even if he only used the teaboy as a poor substitute, he would deserve a little more respect, wouldn’t he? She would see that he realized what a nasty little snake he’d allowed to slither into his bed.

Somewhat comforted by _that_ thought, Gwen lifted the heavy earthenware jug with the wine and returned to the Hall to refill the cups at the high table. She wasn’t allowed to serve the royal family, of course. That, as Old Rhodri had said behind her back, would have been courting disaster. Thus she’d been given the task to see that the visiting young noblewomen wouldn’t lack anything… especially wine.

It wasn’t such a complicated work, after all. One of them, the pale, silver-blonde beauty the others called Lady Melicent, was not very demanding. She seemed a fairly modest person and was clearly a stranger here – in her dark green gown, trimmed with gold-brown silk, and her white silk veil, she looked more like a fairy queen than a woman of flesh and blood. The other one on the other hand, the Lady Cristina, whose gown was forest green, trimmed with purple, was clearly used to give orders and to be obeyed. But her demands weren’t unreasonable, either; all Gwen needed to do was to take up position behind her and do her bidding.

That position also offered her a clear view at the Prince’s family, sitting further up at the high table, talking, laughing, enjoying their meal and each other’s company. They offered a spectacular picture, the ladies all wearing similarly-cut, pendant sleeved gowns in bright, rich colours, made of raw silk, and the men matching overtunics. Prince Rhun looked particularly stunning tonight, his handsome face glowing, framed by the halo of his flaxen curls. He was wearing the richly embroidered, forest green tunic his half-sister Marared had worked on upon Gwen’s first visit in the sewing room – it matched his golden beauty perfectly.

As the opulent first course was winding down towards its end, the young prince, who must have felt that he was being watched, suddenly glanced up with a frown, staring directly across the Hall. The piercing look of his bright blue eyes – so very much like Jack’s! – hit Gwen like lightning. She felt the heat burning in her cheeks; her hands began to shake. The heavy jug slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, hit up on the edge of the table and broke to pieces, spilling red wine all over the precious silk gown of the Lady Cristina.

The air froze in the Hall at once. Everyone stared in shock at the high-ranking young lady in her ruined gown and at the clumsy wench who was still standing behind her, mouth hanging open like that of a landed fish, looking at her handiwork stupidly. To give her credit, the Lady Cristina did _not_ get into a fit of temper over her bad luck as some other ladies would have. She simply rose from her place, excused herself by the Princess Gwladus and gestured her own maids to follow her as she left the Hall to change into something clean.

At a wave of the Lady Dilys, Earonn came in a hurry, dragging Gwen out of the Hall. She was put in one of the empty storage chambers until it would be decided what to do with her. More than one of the serving girls who had been on the receiving end of her foul temper, smirked under their breath imagining what _that_ would be like.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“What happens to her?” Ianto asked in concern. 

Cuhelyn shrugged. “Well, since she doesn’t have the means to replace the Lady Cristina’s gown, it’s Owain who’ll have to pay for it, I suppose. She’s part of his household, after all.”

“She’ll be punished, though?”

“Of course. She should have paid attention to her duties, instead of ogling Prince Rhun all evening,” seeing Ianto’s unhappy face, Cuhelyn shook his head. “You cannot _always_ save her from the consequences of her behaviour, Iefan. She must learn to take responsibility; besides, it will most likely be just the stocks. It was a stupid mistake – and a costly one for the royal purse – but just a mistake. Now, if Owain knew that she hit you in a fit of rage…”

“Cuhelyn, you promised!” Ianto interrupted, alarmed. 

Cuhelyn nodded. “I did, and I’ll keep my promise. It doesn’t mean I’d agree with you, though. But let’s forget her for a while. It’s Cledwyn’s turn to sing now, and he’s almost as good as Gwalchmai himself. In truth, I actually prefer his songs to those of the _pencerdd_ , but that’s a matter of personal taste, I suppose.”

Owain’s _bardd teulu_ came forth shortly thereafter indeed, and sang in the pause between the two courses a long boast about the beauty of the Welsh countries, his allegiance to the Prince of Gwynedd and his great love for women. Again, Ianto could not understand everything, of course, but even so, he could appreciate the simplicity of diction, in which the poet’s gift for narrative description came to full effect. He assumed that – spending enough time in the twelfth century – he might even come to like poetry, which he’d never done before.

When Cledwyn finished his song, earning great praise from several people, including the _pencerdd_ himself – which made him flush with well-earned pride – the palates of the guests had suitably recovered, so that the serving of the second course could begin. To Ianto’s relief it started with relatively light dishes as _garroites_ (carrots cooked in honey), _benes yfryed_ (legumes boiled and then fired with minced onions and garlic and sprinkled with powder douce to season), and continued with tiny noodles cooked in bouillon with lots of saffron and sprinkled with fine grated cheese when dishing up. That particular dish was called _small worms that are found in chese_ , which Ianto found a bit off-putting, but he had to admit that the medieval pasta was really tasty, even if its bright yellow colour was a little shocking at first.

There was a short pause while the wine cups got refilled before the _Saracen brodo_ , the highlight of the second course, was served: roasted capon simmered in juices, wine and fruit. This dish, with a combination of fresh and dried fruits (including dates and raisins) reminded Ianto of the foods he had eaten in some Egyptian restaurant in London while working for Torchwood One. Lisa had been very fond of North African cuisine and had dragged him to various Egyptian and Moroccan places, but none of those had actually been _this_ good.

“What’s wrong?” Cuhelyn asked quietly, seeing his forlorn expression. Ianto shrugged.

“Memories. My… my _bride_ liked food like this,” he explained, hoping he’d used the right word to describe his relationship with Lisa. He _had_ intended to marry her, after all.

“You’re _married_?” Cuhelyn stared at him in surprise. 

He shook his head. “No. Wanted to, but she died. Three… no, four years ago.”

“How?” Cuhelyn asked with deep compassion. He, too, had lost someone he’d loved very much – someone he still loved and missed desperately.

“We lived in London then,” Ianto sighed. “Served the Lady Yvonne; I was a scribe, she a… a maid. There was a street fight, a bad one… and she in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

This was the closest way how he could have explained what had happened to Lisa – and in a sense it was even true. He was surprised how much it still hurt. He’d thought he’d have found his peace about those events – apparently he had not.

Cuhelyn squeezed his arm in an awkward gesture of support. “I’m sorry,” he offered. 

Clearly, big, manly Welsh warriors did not share their feelings frequently.

“Yeah, me, too,” Ianto smiled sadly. “But life goes on.”

And so did the dinner, taking another lengthy break during which jesters, jongleurs and fire breathers entertained the guests. The Lady Cristina had returned to the table in the meantime, wearing a deep red gown that was every bit as beautiful as the one Gwen had ruined, and was eating heartily her share of the _entremet_ – which was venison, roasted with bacon – that was served during the entertainment.

Realizing that they were still only halfway through he feast, Ianto, who already felt stuffed like a Christmas goose, chose to skip the “little course between courses” as it was nicknamed, and asked Cuhelyn if he could be allowed to leave the Hall before dinner would restart in earnest. His back hurt so badly from the long sitting that he could barely breathe, and he hoped that moving around a little might help.

Cuhelyn went to ask the Lady Dilys discretely and came back with the good news that they were allowed to leave, as long as they came back in time for the third course – after which the betrothal would be announced. Cuhelyn promised that they would, and Ianto nearly cried in relief when he could finally rise from his seat, although getting to the door and then down the steps proved quite a challenge for his cramped leg muscles, too. But Cuhelyn supported him, as always, and so he could leave without more than a slight loss of dignity.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He hadn’t even realized how much the Hall had been filled with the smoke of the torches until they were out in the fresh, cold night air. He took deep breaths to air his lungs – it had been worse than a night spent in a pub where every customer was smoking. He wondered how on Earth the bards could manage to _sing_ in a place with so little air; but again, they were probably used to it.

Cuhelyn walked next to him quietly, only occasionally reaching out to support him when his legs rebelled against the unevenness of the ground. After some time and several sidelong looks he clearly decided that there was something that he wanted to tell Ianto, and – being a man of the sword and not one of many words – cut to the core of things directly.

“They’ll be questioning you, soon,” he said. “Owain and his bailiff, and probably some of the other nobles, too.”

Ianto nodded. “I expected that. Now that I have the language to answer… more or less.”

“If you accept a word of wisdom from me,” Cuhelyn said slowly, “I’d advise you to tell them the truth.”

“I’d love to,” Ianto sighed, “but they’d never believe me. They’d say I practiced black arts, and have me tortured and burned at the stake.”

“Why would they do that?” Cuhelyn asked, bewildered. 

Ianto rolled his eyes. “What would _you_ think if I told you that some great force simply picked me up near Caerdydd and hurled me all the way to Abermenai?”

“I’d say that you perhaps weren’t the first,” Cuhelyn replied calmly. “I’ve never seen anything like that myself, of course. But my grandsire used to know a man who’d just appeared in a golden glow in the middle of his courtyard, out of nowhere. At least a dozen other people witnessed it; and that man didn’t know what had happened to him either.”

“What did your grandsire do with the man?” Ianto asked carefully.

Cuhelyn shrugged. “Nothing. Turned out, the man was a small trader from near Caerdydd, like you; he rested a while in our _maenol_ , and then set off for home. We never learned whether he got back or not. But things like that were known to happen in Deheubarth a few generations back. Sometimes strange tools were found in unusual places. Sometimes people who had no memory how they ended up there. Sometimes even fell beasts no-one had ever seen before or after: dragons, or winged serpents, or landfish that could speak like men, they say. Once there even was a man with the head of a dog, according to an ancient tale – I do not know whether _that_ was true, though. But you wouldn’t be the first one to suddenly find himself in strange places.”

A man with the head of a dog? Some kind of Anubis? Ianto was searching his memory, as that sounded oddly familiar. Could they have had a visit from an _Osirian_ of all people? How came that no tales about _that_ had reached the twenty-first century?

“Nothing in recent times, though?” he asked. Cuhelyn shook his head.

“None. My grandsire was still a young man when the last such thing happened, at least in Deheubarth. That was fifty… no, closer to fifty-five years ago.”

Fifty-five years. In theory, the Rift could have shifted in half a century. While one end was fixed in Cardiff – at least in Ianto’s own time; it could have been somewhere else in the twelfth century, too – the other end was known to jump around in time and space. That was why reverse travel was considered impossible.

“Perhaps the other end is in Gwynedd now,” he murmured.

“You mean this is like some kind of tunnel?” Cuhelyn asked with a frown. “A tunnel with one of its ends moving around?”

Ianto nodded. “It seems so, does it not? Or else I’d be in Deheubarth right now, not here.”

Cuhelyn thought about that, taking his time to consider all possibilities.

“It sounds insane,” he finally decided, “but I cannot see any other way how it might have happened. I’ll speak with Owain tomorrow, before he’d call you into his presence for questioning, though. It will be better if he hears about such possibilities from _me_ , since things like that have been known in our family for a long time. It would make him more inclined to believe you.”

“I’ll be grateful for help, as I do not understand what happened myself,” Ianto said. “We should go back to the Hall, though, or else we shall be late.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Cuhelyn whole-heartedly agreed with that, and they got back just in time for the third course to be served. To Ianto’s relief, it only consisted of two dishes. One of them was _turres parmeriennes_ , which turned out as beef and chicken pie decorated with crenelated pastry and miniature banners of Gwynedd and Deheubarth and of the lords who were present at the feast. The other dish was _amplummus_ : basically fried apples in cream, egg, cinnamon and honey. Ianto, who had a sweet tooth, greatly enjoyed those.

After the third course, Prince Owain rose from his seat to announce the betrothal of his daughter Marared to Prince Cadell of Deheubarth. This was a political act rather than a family affair, binding the two kingdoms together in an alliance vitally important for both parties in the face of the ever-present Norman threat. Thus the betrothal gifts the two exchanged symbolised their importance for their countries rather than for each other, especially considering the fact that they hadn’t even met before.

They exchanged signet rings, adorned with the devices of their respective Houses, clasped hands so that all witnesses could see it, and shared a brief, impersonal kiss to seal the agreement. Still, they made a beautiful couple, and Ianto felt sad for them as – alone of all the witnesses – he knew that their efforts would lead to nothing, neither for themselves nor for the Welsh countries.

Fortunately, the festive crowd had no way to know _that_ , and so they could enjoy the fourth course undisturbed by such foreknowledge. It was a small one again, consisting of a fruit and almond milk pie and of spiced nuts, for which Ianto was exceptionally grateful. He couldn’t have eaten more, even if his life depended on it, sweet tooth or no sweet tooth.

After the feast, it was the turn of Hywel ab Owain, the Poet Prince, to show the guests his bardic skills. The young prince – who also happened to be one of his father’s chief warlords, despite being barely more than twenty – brought forth his harp and presented a song that showed a great delight in the love of women, praise of the beauty of nature and prowess in battle; all showing a sense of unfulfilled desire and strong sensuality. For all that he wasn’t considered a professional, Hywel’s poetry was clearly composed to entertain a highly sophisticated courtly audience.

 _Jack would love his poems_ , Ianto thought, listening to the song marked by sensitivity, tenderness, warmth and a surprising sense of humour. _It would be just his thing, with the rapid association of images_. He wished Jack could be here with him, see this wonderfully alien world of the past and listen to the beauty of its songs.

_A white wave, splendid in attack, foams over,_  
coloured like hoar-frost in the hour of its advance.  
I love the sea-coast of Merionnydd,  
where a white arm was my pillow.  
I love the nightingale in the wild wood,  
where two waters meet in that sweet valley. 

As beautiful has Ianto found Hywel’s verse – _and_ his singing voice – they made him feel incredibly homesick. He remembered the rare times when Jack, forgetting that he wasn’t alone in the Hub, had been singing in his office; strange songs in a language only he would understand. Ianto never learned whether it had been his mother tongue or one of the several dozen languages he’d picked up during his travels.

The thought that he might never get the chance to learn the truth, that he might never see Jack again – assuming that Jack was still alive – or Cardiff, or his sister, saddened him. But he had more pressing concerns right now: like the questioning by Prince Owain, which would take place soon. He could only hope that Cuhelyn’s interference might help his case somehow.


	11. Chapter 10 - Iefan's Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea with the Rift shifting in time and space is from , whom I owe my thanks for the excellent suggestion.
> 
> Whatever RTD was trying to make us believe, I simply don’t accept that Ianto would tell lies about his father. Why should he? It was a childhood memory shared with Jack spontaneously, so there was no need for him to lie. I hope I found a convincing way around that particular discrepancy.
> 
>  **Rating:** back to General, for this part.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER TEN – IEFAN’S TALE**

Gwen spent a thoroughly miserable night in the empty storage chamber where she had been shut away. It was cold, it was dark, and sleeping on the beaten earth floor was bloody uncomfortable. They hadn’t given her anything to eat, plus her clothes smelled of wine, as part of what she’d spilled ended up on her previously clean kirtle. But the worst part was the fear; the not knowing what these barbarians might do to her, just because she’d accidentally spilled wine over some rich cow.

She got her answer early enough. Barely had Owain’s household started the new day when two servants came and dragged her to the middle of the courtyard, where a pair of large, hinged wooden boards were placed, with three holes – two smaller ones and a larger one – in the centre, where the boards met. There was already quite a crowd gathering, like the gawkers after a car crash, and, with a sudden feeling of impending doom, Gwen realized that they were going to put her in the stocks.

Oh God, the stocks! She’d read about _those_ in college, when she’d dated one of those re-enactment blokes… before she’d met Rhys. People put in the stocks were exposed to any kind of assault by the spectators, weren’t they? Anybody could insult them, kick them, revile them or aim filth at them. Oh God, they were doing _that_ to her, just because of some spilled wine?

She screamed and kicked around her, trying to free herself from the iron grip of the servants, but the bastards were too strong. They forced her neck and wrists into those holes in the centre and closed the upper board and locked it in place, so that she had no other choice than to kneel, with her face barely more than a hand’s breadth above the filthy ground. Then they grinned and left her to the tender mercies of the crowd.

And fairly questionable mercies _those_ were! Barely had the servants left, the gawkers – above all else those snot-nosed, filthy kids – started throwing foul things at her: rotten fruit and vegetables, horse droppings, dead rats and other things she adamantly refused to guess _what_ exactly they were. Within moments she was sobbing pathetically, her tears smearing the dirt all over her face. Naturally, that caused her nose to start running as well, adding insult to injury… the whole affair was beyond disgusting and deeply humiliating.

The only thought that made it slightly more bearable was that – thank God! – Jack couldn’t see him in this foul state. She did not think she would have survived _that_.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“How long…?” Ianto, who was watching the scene from a distance where Gwen could not see him, asked. 

He felt sorry for her; for a change, the mistake she had made hadn’t been such a horrible one. At least no-one got hurt or killed, like in previous occasions. Of course, the people of the twelfth century probably saw it differently. But Ianto know seeing her like this would break Rhys’ heart, so it made _him_ uncomfortable, too. Whether he liked or not, Gwen was his responsibility in this time; more so as she made so little attempt to adapt. Consequently, it was up to him to protect her as well as he could.

“Only until mid-day,” Cuhelyn replied. “Old Rhodri told the people to be easy on her; this was the first time she truly offended someone above her, and as she’d been bothered by some of Cadell’s guards just before…”

“What?” Ianto cried out in dismay. “When? You never told me!”

“Just after she’d hit you,” Cuhelyn shrugged. “Things like that happen, unfortunately; and it was her own fault, running out of the _maenol_ , into the middle of drunk men. You must understand, Iefan, that she already _has_ the reputation of… well, that ‘tis easy to have her. Or else the men, drunk or not, would have been more thoughtful about bothering a serving wench of the royal household where their lord is an honoured guest. But worry not; Old Rhodri came upon them in time to prevent anything truly bad from happening.”

“Yeah, but what _now_?” Ianto asked, still concerned.

“No-one will assault her in any way,” Cuhelyn reassured him. “Well, not beyond what you can see now. The bailiff has the stocks watched.”

Ianto was still uncertain whether or not he ought to try intervening on Gwen’s behalf, but Cuhelyn clasped his shoulder.

“You must come with me now,” he said. “I’ve spoken to Owain in the morning; he was somewhat bewildered, but it seems strange things _have_ happened in Gwynedd, too, in the recent fifty years or so. No people have turned out out of nowhere, but the golden glow _has_ been seen… and sometimes odd things have been found. So the Prince is willing to believe you – as long as you’re telling the truth.”

Ianto still had his well-founded doubts about _that_. After all, finding things and people displaced by some unknown force was one thing; time travel, voluntary or not, a completely different one. One that he was _not_ about to mention, as he had no wish to be burned at the stake, thank you very much.

Fortunately, he’d had enough time to put a halfway convincing story together, based on what he knew about twelfth century Cardiff and its environs. Which was preciously little and mostly related to some research he’d done for Rupert Howarth while working for Torchwood One – Rupert had wanted to find out where the main branch of the Cardiff Rift had been in the centuries before its actual discovery in the late 1800s, based on the theory that time was a living thing and that as it flowed and shifted, its breach would shift, too. Ianto had never found anything to prove or deny Rupert’s theory… until now, perhaps.

Still, that research was at least _something_ he could his story based on, and thanks to his photographic memory he had been able to call up details other people would have completely forgotten.

He had decided to stay as close to the truth with his story as it was possible. He could be a very convincing liar if he had to – after all, had he not managed to keep Lisa under Jack’s very nose for _months_? – but the best lies were always the ones with a kernel of truth in their centre. He hoped that his true story, dressed up in medieval garb (figuratively speaking) would be convincing enough to make Owain believe it. But he couldn’t be sure.

“Lead the way, then,” he said to Cuhelyn, as there was no way out of this now.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the Prince’s audience chamber an illustre gathering was waiting for him. Aside from Owain himself and his son – surprisingly enough, not his _elding_ but Hywel, who was his second-born – there were Urien the chaplain; Gruffudd ab Rhys, the bailiff from Ros; Einon ab Ithel, his trusted ally; and Gruffydd ab Meilyr. There was also a lean, squarely-built man, clad in sombre, dark colours and a mail shirt: Andras ab Caradog, Owain’s _penteulu_ – the captain of his personal guard, with whom Ianto never had spoken as much as a single word. But he was the Prince’s ranking officer, and thus entitled, no _required_ to be present at such an event.

Cuhelyn went down to one knee before the Prince.

“My lord, I’ve brought Iefan ab Ieuan into your presence, as ordered,” he said; then he rose to leave, but Owain stopped him with a raised hand.

“No; stay with us. Iefan may welcome the support of a friend. I understand that facing us all at once can be a bit… unsettling. Besides, your knowledge of strange happenings may prove useful during his questioning.”

Cuhelyn nodded, grateful that he was allowed to stay and help his newfound friend as well as he could. Like himself, Ianto was a stranger in Gwynedd, no mater how welcome; and a lost, lonely soul without those who had meant everything to him. They had bonded on that basis, and it helped them both not to feel so much alone among strangers. Ianto, too, was grateful to have him present.

The nobles of the court were sitting in a half-circle. Ianto bowed to the Prince with respect, regretting that he could not give him the proper greeting, but his back would not allow it, not yet.

“My lord,” he said simply, signalling his readiness to answer their questions.

“Let us begin with the small things,” Owain said. “We know your name, but not where you are from and how old you are.”

“I’ve turned twenty and six, my lord, and I come from Penarth; a small town in the Bro Morgannwg, some five miles from Caerdydd,” Ianto answered smoothly.

It wasn’t exactly the truth, but he couldn’t for his life, remember what Newport had been called in the twelfth century. _If_ it had already existed in this era, that is. So he had gone for the nearest town about whose existence he _was_ certain.

“My father was a master tailor,” he continued, again omitting the detail of his Tad losing his shop to the recession, as it wouldn’t have said these people anything. “I wanted to become a clerk, though. So when he died, I went to London, where I served in the household of a Norman lady.”

Owain nodded. “Cuhelyn told us about that… and about your loss. Why did you go to London, though? Good clerks are sought for in the Welsh countries as well, and I know that you are a good clerk.”

“I wanted to see more of the world,” Ianto replied simply.

“You got more than you had bargained for, if I understood Cuhelyn correctly,” Owain said. 

Ianto nodded. “That is why I returned to Caerdydd in the end,” he said. “My new master, Captain Jack… _Jacob_ of Boeshane, held a small garrison on Ynis Echni for William FitzRobert, the Norman lord who holds the Castle of Caerdydd. I was his clerk and his manservant in one person. I wrote his letters, kept his books and his clothes tidy, cleaned his chambers and took care of his pet dragon.”

“He had a _dragon_?” the Prince’s bailiff looked at him with the critical eye of a doctor trying to diagnose the exact level of his patient’s insanity.

“Well, not a true dragon, of course,” Ianto admitted readily. “Just a monstrous flying reptile of some sort. She could have killed an ox with her beak, but was quite tame, actually. Fond of sweetmeats, too – and the best watchdog we could have wished for. We called her Myfanwy.”

“Where did your master find such a creature,” Owain Gwynedd inquired, “and how comes that no-one else has heard about it so far? It ought to have been spotted by someone.”

“We don’t know where she came,” Ianto replied. “I found her, alone and wounded when she was but a fledgling, and tended to her till she healed. My Captain found her… interesting and spared her. But we knew people would be terrified by her sight, so we only let her out at night.”

“A sensible precaution,” said the Prince. “So, who else belonged to your master’s household? What about the slattern we found you with? You obviously know her.”

Ianto sighed. “God have mercy with me, I do. She’s the wife of the local carter,” this was the nearest twelfth century term he could think of to describe Rhys’ job, “Rhys ab William. When the Lady Susanna died, my master hired Gwen; as she was the daughter of the local bailiff,” another lie, but how could he have explained _why_ Jack had hired Gwen? He didn’t understand it himself; nobody at Torchwood Three did, “the Captain thought she would be able to work among armed men. Or that she would, at least, be a good tirewoman for the Lady Seren, my master’s ward.”

He could not find a name that would correspond Tosh’s own. But _Seren_ meant star in Welsh, and he found it fit her wonderfully. She had been such a bright one – the world was a darker, more joyless place without her.

“But she was not,” Owain said. It wasn’t really a question. He’d seen already what a useless wench Gwen was.

“She was more interested in becoming the Captain’s mistress,” Ianto replied dryly. “My master does not dally with married women, though. He holds the sanctity of family in too high an esteem for that. So she sought comfort by Master Owen, the garrison’s leech.”

“And her husband tolerated this, instead of getting her to the pillory?” Einon ab Ithel raised a disapproving eyebrow.

Ianto shrugged. “He did not know; he ever only thought the best of her. Believed whatever she would tell her.”

“Fool of love,” Hywel ab Owain murmured, his eyes bright with amusement.

“That is true, my lord,” Ianto agreed. “Rhys loved her with all his heart; still does, I presume. And she, too, loved him in her own way. He was just never enough for her.”

“There’s another thing I cannot understand,” the _penteulu_ said. “Everyone says she knows nought of the running of a household. How can that be? How can she be so clueless? Is she a half-wit, or has she been surrounded by servants all her life?”

“Unlikely,” _Owain_ ’s bailiff commented drily. “No bailiff can be _that_ wealthy.”

“Geraint Cooper was a rich craftsman ere he would become the bailiff of Ynis Echni,” Ianto said. “He and his wife spoiled their only child like a princess.”

“Did they now?” Owain raised an amused eyebrow. “I cannot remember _my_ daughters having ever been this ill-behaved, not even as small children.”

“’Tis just a figure of speech, my lord,” Ianto said hastily. “Something we say where I come from; not that any of us had seen a true princess before.”

“I thought so,” Owain laughed. “But if she is married, she must have children back home.”

Ianto shook his head. “They married but a short time ago. She _thought_ she was with child just before we would get here, but she was wrong, it seems.”

“Why do you believe that?” Urien asked.

“She would be showing by now, were she truly with child,” Ianto said. “We have been here for nearly three months…”

Gruffydd ab Meilyr shook his head. “Not if she was not far yet by the time the two of you came here. My wife never showed ere she would reach half-time… sometimes even later.”

“I never thought to ask,” Ianto said uncertainly. He was quite sure that either the scanner had been malfunctioning or the time travel had reverted Gwen’s pregnancy somehow, or else he would have already heard horror stories about morning sickness, food cravings and how she shouldn’t be doing any heavy labour. But he was at a loss how to explain all this to Owain and his people, who most likely did not see pregnancy as a reason to pamper their women.

“We’ll have the herb mistress look into the issue,” Owain decided. “What about your means to get here, though? Cuhelyn mentioned something about a strange force that sometimes carries people and things off and leaves them in far-away, foreign places. Is _that_ what happened to you?”

“That could be, yes, my lord,” Ianto replied, trying to deliver his often-rehearsed explanation about the Rift in a convincing manner. “You see, my Captain said this force is like… like a great river, or a strong wind. He thought its source lay somewhere under Caerdydd, but sometimes it would rise from its bed and take something – or someone – away… he could not tell where.”

“Did this… force ever bring people _back_?” Urien asked quietly. As a cleric, he was naturally the most receptive towards mysterious forces above their daily lives.

Ianto shook his head, having long decided that telling them about the inhabitants of Flat Holm would not help things. It wasn’t as if they could predict where one ought to enter the Rift to get back, was it?

“No,” he said. “Not that _I would_ know.”

“Still, you could get home on your own,” Hywel pointed out. “On foot or on horseback, when your backbone has healed and the weather has become warmer again.”

“I could,” Ianto agreed, “but I no longer _have_ a home. Enemies attacked our outpost – we not even know who they were – and threw something like Greek fire onto our fortress. Everything has been destroyed; my master is likely dead, as he was in the centre of the fire. His ward and Master Owen have been slain a year before, when his brother tried to take the stronghold from him – Gwen and I are the only ones left.”

“Have you no family at all?” Urien asked.

“I have a sister,” Ianto said, “But we were never close. She could not forgive me for leaving to serve the Normans.”

This was the closest how he could describe his quarrels with Rhiannon, so that these people would understand. Welsh pride was something one could always refer to.

“But would your sister not need your support?” Urien said, clearly disapproving. In Wales, the clan was supposed to care for their own.

Ianto grinned. “She has her big oaf of a husband who likes to laugh over my chosen work and my clothes,” again, there was no true twelfth-century equivalent to Johnny’s stupid gay jokes. ‘And two children, a boy and a girl, who shall not miss me… save for the coin they could cajole out of my purse,” he added with just a touch of bitterness. “I have nothing… no-one to go back to.”

“What about the wench?” the bailiff asked.

Ianto shrugged. “She’ll wish to return to her husband eventually. If she does, I shall go with her. I owe Rhys to bring his wife back. He is a good, decent man.”

“What if she does _not_ want to return?” Urien asked. “Or what _after_ you have taken her home? What will become of you?”

Ianto sighed dejectedly. “I do not know. I have no-where to go.”

Urien looked at the Prince. “If you give your leave, my lord, I would like to keep him with me. He writes a clean hand, he is of agreeable nature, and he works hard for his keeping. We could make good use of him.”

“I would be agreeable,” Owain looked at Ianto searchingly. “What say you, Master Iefan? Will you stay here and enter our service?”

“Gladly, my lord,” Ianto felt as if a great pressure had been lifted from his chest by the perspective of finding himself a permanent place again. “But I must ask you to give me leave to take Gwen home when she wishes to go. I cannot let her wander across the country alone.”

“She is not your responsibility,” Owain said quietly.

“Oh, but he is,” Ianto replied simply. “She is the wife of a friend, and she has no-one beside me who would care for her.”

For a while Owain remained silent, watching the young man with focussed interest, as if he had wanted to look into Ianto’s very heart. Ianto held his piercing gaze stoically, even though his legs had begun to tremble for having stood in the same position for too long. Involuntarily, he leaned onto his cane more heavily, wishing that he would be allowed to sit, but that was just not the thing to do in the presence of someone who was a king in all but name.

“I have the strange feeling that you have not told us all that is there to know, Master Iefan,” Owain finally said, and Ianto inclined his head respectfully.

“That is true, my lord. However, I have told you all that I can explain and held back nought that would endanger you, your family _or_ your kingdom. I swear by the sacred bones of Saint Gwenfredi.”

That was an oath he had heard from the locals repeatedly, and even though he was not the least religious, he felt that he had to say something in that direction to give his promise more weight. Again, Owain watched him for quite a while; then he nodded briskly.

“Very well, then; I accept you as a member of my household. You shall remain with Urien and work as his clerk, unless we find something even more fitting for you. Perchance one day you’ll find it in you to trust us with whatever you are holding back.”

“What about Gwen, my lord?” Ianto asked. “Will you allow her to stay as well? I know she is a little clumsy, but…”

“She’s _useless_ ,” Cuhelyn interrupted, clearly angry with him for protecting the woman who had treated him so badly. “And she’s an ill-mannered slattern. Why would the Prince wish to keep her? Serving in the royal _maenol_ is a privilege she has not earned and never will.”

“That may be so,” allowed Owain. “Yet Master Iefan sees her as one he is obliged to protect. If we want to keep him, we have no choice but keeping her, too.”

“You appear quite eager to keep him,” Einon ab Ithel commented. “Why would you?”

Owain shrugged. “I would like to learn the secrets he still keeps; besides, he _does_ write a clean hand, and Urien can do with the help.”

“That I can indeed,” the chaplain agreed placidly.

“So be it, then,” Owain said. “I shall ask the Lady Dylis to find some work for the wench where she cannot cause much harm. We should move her from the guest room to the servants” sleeping hall, but I fear the other maids would suffer from her bad temper too much. So we shall leave her where she is – for now. You must talk to her, though,” he looked at Ianto, “and make her understand that she endangers herself if she keeps behaving the way she has done so far. Moreover if she remains so… generous with her favours as she appears to be.”

“I shall try,” Ianto promised with a heavy sigh. “ _If_ she’ll listen, though…”

“It would be better for her if she did,” Cuhelyn muttered angrily. “Or else today won’t be her last time in the stocks. Come now, she’ll be released shortly. Perhaps she will appreciate a friendly hand held out to her.”

To tell the truth, Ianto strongly doubted that Gwen would be thankful for his presence, especially after such public humiliation, but as the questioning was clearly over, he was only happy to follow Cuhelyn out.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When they finally released her from the stocks, Gwen was in an indescribable state, in both body and mind. Despite the relatively mild autumn weather, she was shivering with cold, not having eaten or drunk – or been able to wash herself or sleep properly – for almost a full day. _And_ she was filthy, appallingly filthy. Those… those _barbarians_ had thrown all sorts of things at her, including horseshit; the kids had kicked her and spat on her and even _pissed_ on her! How could such things be allowed in the first place? She hadn’t _killed_ anyone, for God’s sake; she’d merely spilled wine on the dress of some wealthy bitch!

Earonn came and said something about bathing, but Gwen did not listen. The last thing she wanted was to go down to the river with those stupid wenches and let them have a good laugh at her expense. She decided to go to her secret spot, where she’d had a bath on the previous day and scrub herself clean – well, as clean as it was possible with cold water and soap that did not lather. She would soak and wash her clothes at the same time. There was no way on Earth that she would take the dress some filthy little rat pissed on to her room.

It took her a long time till she felt reasonably clean again; her skin was red and raw from all that scrubbing, and her arms ached – slapping wet clothes against the washing stone _after_ having spent half a day in the stocks had _not_ been fun. Finally, she gathered her wet things, put everything in the basked and headed back to the guest rooms. Her small satisfaction over being more or less clean again evaporated at once, though, as she spotted Ianto waiting for her in front of her door, leaning heavily on his cane.

Terrific! Had the sodding teaboy come to gloat? Well, he’d come too late. She was presentable again, and should Ianto as much as _try_ cracking a stupid joke about her bad luck; she _would_ break his nose this time!

“What do you want, Ianto?” she asked irritably. “I’ve had a shitty day, as you’ve probably noticed, and I’m not in the right mood to your self-important pontificating.”

“Whoa, big words!" Ianto replied sarcastically. “Believe me, Gwen, sometimes it would be a relief if I wouldn’t have to care for your difficulties as well as for my own. And the fact that you’ve nearly crippled me again does not help. But we’re together in this mess, for good or bad, and we need to get through it together.”

“I don’t need you!” Gwen snapped. Ianto raised an ironic eyebrow.

“Don’t you now? Am I not the only one who can speak with the locals here? And since it’s so, Prince Owain has called _me_ to his audience chamber and questioned me. About who we are. About where we came from – and how.”

“What did you tell him?” Gwen asked, alarmed. Ianto shrugged.

“The truth, as well as it was possible,” he gave her an edited version of the audience with Owain and is counsellors. Needless to say that Gwen wasn’t thrilled.

“You told them _what_ about me?” she all but screamed. Ianto shrugged again.

“I told them what they could understand and would believe. I could hardly tell them that you were playing Wonder Woman, fighting monsters – the only thing they could have understood of _that_ would be that you were a witch – and they might have decided that torturing you and then burning you at the stake would be a good idea. So please, back off a little, at least in the face of nobility, in your own best interest.”

“Well, I’d have to, since you told them I’m some sort of serving wench,” she returned nastily. 

Ianto suppressed a sigh; she was truly tiring when she went all stubborn on one.

“What should I have told them?” he asked with forced patience. “That you’re some noble lady? Who’d have believed _that_ , after having found you wandering around on your own, in men’s clothes – and having slept with the first bloke who came your way?”

Gwen made an attempt to slap him, but Ianto caught her wrist and held it tight; that helped him to keep his precarious balance, too.

“Back off, Gwen!” he said sharply. “I won’t put up with your abuse any longer. Like it or not, this is a different time, where women depend on the protection of men, and right now I am the only one who gives a shit if you live or die… but don’t test my patience too hard. I might decide that you’re just not worth the effort, and you’ll end up as a tavern whore or something like that. You already _have_ the reputation of a slut, and ogling Prince Rhun the way you keep doing doesn’t help things. I _begged_ the Prince to allow you to stay in his household, because this is the safest place where we can be – don’t make me regret it!”

“Why would you care?” she hissed angrily. 

Ianto sighed. “Because should anything happen to you, it would break Rhys’ heart. And because I know what it is like to lose someone we love. If we ever find a way home, I’d like to spare him that kind of pain.”

“What do you mean _if_?” Gwen demanded. “Jack will come for us. All we need to do is to go back to Cardiff; he’ll find a way to cross the Rift.”

“Jack may very well be dead,” Ianto reminded her grimly.

She shook her head determinedly. “No. He’ll come back. He _always_ comes back.”

“He’s always come back so far,” Ianto corrected. “He hasn’t been blown to bloody pieces before. We cannot know if he can survive _that_.”

“Why couldn’t he?” Gwen frowned. “He can survive _everything_. He said so himself.”

“That’s what he _likes_ to believe,” Ianto pointed out,” mostly because he hopes that he’ll be proved wrong one day. But just because he’s come back from all kinds of deaths so far, it doesn’t mean there _isn’t_ any way to kill him for good. It only means that way hasn’t been found yet. It could have happened with that bomb, though. It hasn’t been tried yet; and whoever the people are who wanted to kill us all, they probably know more than we do.”

“No, it can’t be!” Gwen started panicking in earnest. “Oh God, he can’t be gone forever! What area we going to do within him?”

“Adapt to the circumstances, wait and hope to find a way home,” Ianto replied calmly. “What else could we do?”

“No, no, we can’t just sit there, in this mudhole!” Gwen protested. “I’m not spending my best years as a washwife! We _must_ go back to Cardiff!”

“We can do that in spring, if that’s what you want,” Ianto said tiredly. “It wouldn’t do us much good, though. Who knows if the Rift even exists permanently in this time; and if it does, where it is? If Jack’s still alive – or alive _again_ – he’ll find a way. He’s an ex-Time Agent, and an ex-companion; he’s best suited to manage time travel.”

“And if he isn’t?” Gwen demanded in a teary voice.

Ianto shrugged. “Then what’s the point?”

“It’s easy for you to say so!” Gwen said accusingly. “ _You_ haven’t got a life outside of Torchwood. But I’ve got Rhys, he’s missing me, and I miss him. I need to get back to him!”

“You should have thought of him before you’d spread ‘em for Trefor,” Ianto said bluntly, losing patience with her.

“I needed _someone_!” she returned, angrily and in tears. “ _You_ weren’t there! No-one cared for me! I was _alone_!”

“No, you were _not_ ,” Ianto countered. “I _was_ there; I was just injured and in a great deal of pain – not that you’d ever wasted a thought on that. The people here were kind to us; they took us in and gave us clothes and fed us, although they could have simply killed us as intruders. If I were you, I’d stop whining and complaining and would start to show some gratitude – if you know what that means at all!”

Fed up with her completely, he turned away and limped back to Urien’s house. There was still work to do for him. He didn’t even notice Gwen staring after him in wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
And so it came that the two lost strangers would be taken into Prince Owain’s household. Master Iefan continued working for Urien the chaplain as his clerk, and was later often borrowed by the bards of the court to write down their poems, as his handwriting was clean and ordered, and the bards agreed that it looked better than their own. 

When they discovered that he had a fairly good singing voice, one of them started teaching him to play the small, hand-held harp and Ianto, who had never played a music instrument before, found that he liked that. 

Cuhelyn also insisted to give him some lessons in self-defence, as soon as his back healed. He would never reach the level of the simplest warrior at court, given that he had not learned wielding a sword from childhood on and thus his entire body had developed differently, but he became adequate enough to defend himself when attacked on his way, at least until help would arrive.

Gwen ended up as a scullery wench, scrubbing sooty cauldrons and pots in the small room behind the kitchens all day. The days when she was required to help with the washing were almost a relief. She hated every moment of it but took Ianto’s warnings to heart for a change – at least until she would find a way to get back to Cardiff, for she still believed that being there would help Jack find them.

Until then, she could do nothing else but wait for the best opportunity and try to stay alive.

~The End - for now~

Soledad Cartwright@20-02-2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will be continued in "Intersections in Real Time", eventually.  
> More about Cuhelyn's background can be found in "Brothers-in-Arms", a purely Cadfael tale I'm about to post next.


End file.
